The Holy Order of Crazed Monks

Sometimes a thing can only be defined in terms of those things of which it is not.

For example, we are not The Oily Hoarder of Caged Skunks.
Nor are we The Wily Herder of Wooly Mammoths.
We also have nothing to do with The Moldy Larder of Shaved Hunks
or The Roly-poly Crawler over Dazed Punks.

On the other hand, we are the second home to The Old, Elderly, and Ancient Peruvian Water-climbing Moose-tailed Muskrat whose holy word was revealed to Keptrsg thru the automatic writing of Strbrgtx during protracted verbal exchanges with a pack of looneys:


Fortunately, that does not apply here and we can both firmly assert and certainly affirm that we are

A question without an answer

A bad hair day

Music without sound

The stone left unturned

The sound of one hand clapping

Playing with fire

A forest without the trees

A toilet without a seat

What goes around

A glass half empty

The darkness without a dawn

The least common denomination

Stark raving mad

The tunnel at the end of the light

The day you wake up and it all makes senselessness

Fear itself

A storm in the lull

and last but not least
Metaphorically Obtuse.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...