Who among us can reckon the shoesize of the gods? Not even the mystic cobbler of Al Zagapur! Hence the gods dance barefoot, and so it is that we too dance barefoot in our dreams.
The plumed bird of Muu-taabana devours the mind and leaves only the rhythm of its gnashing beak in our hearts, ears and feet. We follow that rhythm without fear. We bring it as a gift wrapped in gold and diamonds.
Beware the man or woman who does not envy the Mungolian Hunters, for they are minions to their own boredom! Who but the life-fearing cannot love the dance of the hunt?
The tailor of Munke-Timor embroiders the harem pants of joy with flourishes of love. This love we bring to those who are willing to hear and be loved: can you stand firm and give love in return?
Headhunters, deathdancers, soldiers of the fallen queens of history: they're as welcome as the shamens, as welcome as the starstealers, as welcome as each and all who read this.
We will stand triumphant beneath skies of burning sunset, closing the day, and opening the night. We are Mungolian, and all of time belongs to us!
The tongue of flame does not burn those who are the beloved of Joukakhan: give us your children, peoples of earth, and we will make dancers of them all.
War is for the people who do not know the value of their bodies. The ancient gods feast on their flesh as a dog gnaws on a hollow soup bone.
The horseman of the 59th guard does not see danger: he sees possibility. Lightning is just the sky sneezing, to which he says "gezundheit!"
Kebabs? We like kebabs. What of it? Do you like breathing? Yes? Well, we like kebabs.
Better to have a spare head than be forced to wear your ass on top.
The velvet curtains are maps to David Lynch's hidden vagina. They also double as nets to catch moonbeams and starfish.
The gold chains of the destroyer differ from the gold chains of the rapper in design only: both represent beautification of the ugly.
On my planet, there were no rainbows, but the sky would effervesce and spit beams of light, and the people would dance in the rain, and we made the music for their dance. Good times, I think you'll agree.
We will reach into your soul and unchain your inner Mungolian: we were here before you, we will be here when you are gone. You belong to us. Better now that you surrender. You cannot fight your destiny: that would be the work of a fool. Are you a fool? No. I thought not ...
We know the way to your soul, we don't need a map
Beware the abnormal devil turd. It writes things down.
Consumed by lust, lusted by consumers
I dance, therefore I live
This is the sound of your deepest darkest secret
Taste the truth, it's Mungolian flavoured
Rock beats scissors, Mungolian beats rock
Spoon? What fucking spoon?
Where did I put my umbrella?
Hung like a horse, drawn like a Picasso, quartered like a pizza.
The split kebab forgives the sausage
Life on earth? Only after 9:00PM
Did you hear the one about the Mungolian, the nun and the tsetse fly?
Put your hands up for Detroit, pull your pants down for Mung!
All that stand before them will be changed utterly; all that stand behind them will be consumed voraciously; all that stand beside them will be assimilated indiscriminately; all who hear them will be dancing recklessly. Experience Life. Fly Mungolian.
"When I heard the Mungolian Jet Set, I felt like a psychotic love-banana in a sexy washing machine."
Fly Mungolian: It Can Be Our Dirty Little Secret. You Bitch!