Atypical Kayapo Arctangent Ritual

Thus bespake the Mousegoo: I am a frog to the unrhymeable word! I am a majestic maharaja! I am the pentacle of glee upon which the mismastered modern approximation of Americana dances floppily in glee! I am the unbludgeonable standard upon which creative expression shall be measured against! I am the transmarginality suffering at the end of a sentence when all is said and done. What? You were expecting Abbott and Costello? Or Martin Lawrence? Or some more modern magus of the English language to provide to you some kind of emmenagogue for your misconcieved thoughts? Oh, you wound me with your comparisons of me to a lemon, to a lemonade stand, to a degreed molecule of gabapentin lamenting its motehood. You'd want another preacher, one who wanted to inject ideas into your head, perhaps with an actual syringe filled with metaphysical mustard of poor consistency and even more dependency on simile turmeric this and syllogism onion powder that, and Thomas Pynchon's unauthorized biography the other. Oh, you want something explicit. Something painfully obvious spelled out in words made from obscenely legible letters? Something so legible and crisp that you could cut your nose on it? Good luck finding that in this post-trans-structuralist cavalcade of poorly expressed ideas and ill-constructed thoughts. Oh, so you're saying that I should march my Mousegoo to the temple of High Energy Physics and wait until they tell me the fundamental explanation of all reality? My error, that required capital letters and italics: The Fundamental Explanation of All Reality. (doesn't that acronymize to FEAR?) I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you've got the wrong number. I'm no longer at that address (nor were you). We've moved on. You can purchase our idea-globules at the local soda factory for ten ducats a dram. I'll see you when the sheep come home.