I welcome you, dear comrades, to the final installment of this latest MonkeyZen cycle. Please open your mind to his gentle illumination.

Panel the First: MonkeyZen stands center panel in a mid-abdomen to above-head framing. His face is blank, emotionless— even thoughtless? There is something not entirely sentient in his attitude on this occasion.

Panel the Second: The frame-perspective has remained the same, although MonkeyZen has reached up with his rightmost manipulator and grasped a zipper-to-pull somewhat past the crown of his head and, pulling ventrally down past the tip-of-nose, opening a great gaping in his capitol.

Panel the Third: Frame-perspective remains the same, but MonkeyZen has completely Dis-skinned, revealing his true nature: a large-round-headed, thin-armed, sparse-framed alien life form. The darkness of this Universe being manifold and dense!

Brief Interpretation: At both Sang's and Rob's behest, I shall further avoid reading overmuch into the meanings of this hand and that hand— save to note, superciliously (although I lack the cilia to be literally supercilious) that it is with the right manipulator that MonkeyZen has zipped away his monkey visage (thus rightly revealing his truer nature) and with the left alien hook he gestures (thus telegraphing his sinister intent.) But I shall thenceforth leave my handly meditations aside.

In these, the lazy days of summer, I have viewed much of the cathode-ray tube box and its cabled entertainment filling. Of most note is not the programming, nigh unto universally loathsome and bile-inspiring, save for The Bachelorettes Take Alaska and American Idyll, but the commercial advertisements of an informational nature. Brought to thought by this MonkeyZen, are the many and several adventures of the Pepsitwist, wherein the Pespistandard is zipperevealed to be the cunning Pepsitwist, just as the Halley Which Annoys is revealed to be the Halley Which Arouses is revealed to be the White Barry of the North, or that in which the great investigator of Austin beats, without mercy, the Brittany of Spears. I believe that they are thence dezippered, to reveal that each is the other, and it is nought but a world of mirrors, where Pepsistandard is truly Pepsitwist is truly Vanillacock is truly Standardcock is truly Barry Boswick is truly you or I or We-all. Might we not, upon inspection, each and all of us find run along our ventral line a zipper fastener or other closure? MonkeyZen here reflects the great cultural fear of this our time: That, by chance, it is a world of mirrors and zippers, and each unclothing reveals a new clothedness, a garment covering a garment covering a garment, like so many Russian nesting leaders, nesting within each other like parasitic wasps of the Politburo.

I see a world, like unto the clockwork imaginings of Giordano Bruno, where the holy melancholies of man are nested Earth-sphere inside of Celestial-sphere inside Super-celestial-sphere inside God-mind, but more terrible than that optimistic Italian Neoplatonisty could have conceived, for the movements of truth are not known or controlled, and while it is certainly possible that within ones secret zipper might be found an ethereal Cherubim of beauty, it is also equally possible that the failed grimace of cursed, homunculin defeat awaits revelation.

But now, what can we know? And, should it disturb me that, despite her lacks, Halley the Arouser causes a tender, terrible stiffening of my mating tentacle? In this zippered mirrorworld, I have truly become confused and confounded.

I (Pray That I) Remain,
Your Giant Squid