Sleeping light monstrous smocks? A mastermind minding it's own minimax strategy starts on Graham Kerr and peers at the bonobos, bleating cacophonously its rather messy message. Haloo, Halay, I saw a bearded Malay smoking a cheroot on the beshingled roof of the Count's summer home, the Prince of Paresthesia, the Pauper of Prissiness, E. Ethwin Mengwharve. The hired help (well, at this point Mathilde was more a live in lover than a maid, and Mengwharve took advantage of her in the obviously concievable fashion) was more like an accident in home misdesign, or home misstaffing. Three bleans of coriander drift lazily down from the firestalks and collide with the nose of Mengwharve's butler Georgius Alois Wartefunkelis, who brushes them away dismissively and derisively, paranoically believing them to be a species of beetle committed to the destruction of sand castles. Wartefunkelis, while not engaged in periphrasty or butlering, is given to writing nasal obsequies to the editor of the New Straffam Daily Buffoon detailing the horrors of beetles. And the scullery droid Y4-Seineproust bakes horrendous Yttrium tarts and mercurichrome souffles which are inedible by the human inhabitants of the house. Wartefunkelis usually ends up ordering Basque-Korean hybrid cuisine from Stan Kowalski's Ethnic Stereotype bar down the street, take a left, walk three paces to the North, prostrate oneself in the direction of Toronto and say five "All your base are to belong to us" in honor of the deity (well, their deity) Strong-Bad.
The villa is sprawled against the stucco houses: the architect who designed it was thoroughly out of her mind. This is not surprising because she decided to donate her mind to the Children in need of Minds Society before said society was declared illegal by the Docent of Sense. The villa looks like what you'd get when you take the finest shaped porcelain pot, all ready to be fired in the kiln, and throw it against the nearest politician's face, and then fire it, decide it wasn't worth a thing and toss it in a disused cardboard box, and then months later it's found by some plucky graduate student who decides that it would make the most fascinating piece of avant garde art, and has it displayed in the closest art museum's galleries to the adulation of the local egotistic art critics, and then gets numerous grants and fellowships while you languish in obscurity. It is *that* ugly an architectural monstrosity. Mengwharve inherited it from his grand uncle U. Propin Mengwharve thirty years ago, and has taken bitter satisfaction that he has used every minute of his occupation of the villa to synthesize a satiatingly spleen-strewn type of decadence, much to the ire of the surrounding countrymen, who work honest jobs at dishonest wages for your X-standard corporation. Mengwharve styles himself an aesthete, a patriarchical buffoon, a pair of needle nose pliers being used to remove a wart, a screamingly abused witness to the clumsiness of the species, an android baluchitherium, a shallow ice-cream spoon floating down the Ganges during monsoon season, a fat man with dead eyes and a loose face who is invited to the most pretentious soirees and speaks deliberately meaningless prose-poetry, a professorial adjutant to the local constabulary, called in times of need, a writhing sex bejungler, a catatonic ant-hater, a notably lunatic ice-maker, and so on, et cetera to the point of personal vertiginy, wherein in desiring the mantle of the appropriate monikers for all of these self-stylings, he becomes the Zenith Prince of Dilettantes and the Distracted, a title he often ignores, even though every reasonable art theorist damns him with it at least thrice a day (sometimes twice, in cases of great duress).
Wartefunkelis tolerates Mengwharve's exuberances, miseloquences, parturitions, parsimonies, ignominies, acrimonies with dizzyingly patient overtures too sublime and meticulous to escape Mengwharve's attentions with difficulty. While attentive and sharp, Wartefunkelis is not a condescending Jeeves, at least not in any way immediately perceptible to Mengwharve. Mathilde enjoys the comfortable high bandwidth communication channels that Wartefunkelis seems to comfortably and sublimely inhabit without arousing Mengwharve's jealousy. Mathilde complains: "It's like dating two men. Essel provides the cathexis, he's almost an engineer in catalyzing it in me, but when the field of focus is dancing the cosmic arrhythmias, he effortlessly arcs over his own head and collides against the opposite wall face, usually to shatter in thousands of pieces, um, well, okay, so more to smash and pulp like a piece of gelatin. Georgius's apprehension of the cosmic arrhythmias is unparalleled, but he sucks in the sack."
Mengwharve has this to say about Mathilde: "My shining radiant woman, my temple of femininity, my holy skirt to ransack and oscill in lugubriously vibratory miasmous pulsations. My scent-factory, my Central Central Womantelligence agency. The Zenir of my Nadith! My core competency! The inner base on which I draw my strength! My cactus! My Welshman of Belgium, my astroplexus of Cantor! My dynamic hip-possessor! My transnational supply chain, my astrological compass! My transpetroglyphics anonymous confessor! My very own mid-Nineteenth century pseudotalmudic French Existentialist philosophy! I scream and cry at the microseismic distortions which her feet make in the ground. I toss with glee at the sight of her body. I am overcome with the trilogy of eros, philos, and what was the other one? Agave? Tequila? Yes, that's it! Eros, Philadelphia, and Tequila, when I breathe her scent. I pulse and shudder to think of her."
Wartefunkelis sez of Mengwharve: "A singularly crimson wollop-wharf of incomprehensible traffic-jams. An undirected summons to the corpulent neutrino of status worship and diseased conception. His methods, his message, his structure all shriekingly declare an unrivaled incompetence. Mengwharve's inaccuracy is studied. His imprecision a work of art. His clumsiness is miraculously developed. If there is an inner sanctum of twithood, he is the temple monk. While I try to lubricate and smooth the confusing, congealed array of arroyos which is his star-stallion of a mind, he continues to amaze me with the buttery clash of his mind's continual malfunctioning."
The villa is sprawled against the stucco houses: the architect who designed it was thoroughly out of her mind. This is not surprising because she decided to donate her mind to the Children in need of Minds Society before said society was declared illegal by the Docent of Sense. The villa looks like what you'd get when you take the finest shaped porcelain pot, all ready to be fired in the kiln, and throw it against the nearest politician's face, and then fire it, decide it wasn't worth a thing and toss it in a disused cardboard box, and then months later it's found by some plucky graduate student who decides that it would make the most fascinating piece of avant garde art, and has it displayed in the closest art museum's galleries to the adulation of the local egotistic art critics, and then gets numerous grants and fellowships while you languish in obscurity. It is *that* ugly an architectural monstrosity. Mengwharve inherited it from his grand uncle U. Propin Mengwharve thirty years ago, and has taken bitter satisfaction that he has used every minute of his occupation of the villa to synthesize a satiatingly spleen-strewn type of decadence, much to the ire of the surrounding countrymen, who work honest jobs at dishonest wages for your X-standard corporation. Mengwharve styles himself an aesthete, a patriarchical buffoon, a pair of needle nose pliers being used to remove a wart, a screamingly abused witness to the clumsiness of the species, an android baluchitherium, a shallow ice-cream spoon floating down the Ganges during monsoon season, a fat man with dead eyes and a loose face who is invited to the most pretentious soirees and speaks deliberately meaningless prose-poetry, a professorial adjutant to the local constabulary, called in times of need, a writhing sex bejungler, a catatonic ant-hater, a notably lunatic ice-maker, and so on, et cetera to the point of personal vertiginy, wherein in desiring the mantle of the appropriate monikers for all of these self-stylings, he becomes the Zenith Prince of Dilettantes and the Distracted, a title he often ignores, even though every reasonable art theorist damns him with it at least thrice a day (sometimes twice, in cases of great duress).
Wartefunkelis tolerates Mengwharve's exuberances, miseloquences, parturitions, parsimonies, ignominies, acrimonies with dizzyingly patient overtures too sublime and meticulous to escape Mengwharve's attentions with difficulty. While attentive and sharp, Wartefunkelis is not a condescending Jeeves, at least not in any way immediately perceptible to Mengwharve. Mathilde enjoys the comfortable high bandwidth communication channels that Wartefunkelis seems to comfortably and sublimely inhabit without arousing Mengwharve's jealousy. Mathilde complains: "It's like dating two men. Essel provides the cathexis, he's almost an engineer in catalyzing it in me, but when the field of focus is dancing the cosmic arrhythmias, he effortlessly arcs over his own head and collides against the opposite wall face, usually to shatter in thousands of pieces, um, well, okay, so more to smash and pulp like a piece of gelatin. Georgius's apprehension of the cosmic arrhythmias is unparalleled, but he sucks in the sack."
Mengwharve has this to say about Mathilde: "My shining radiant woman, my temple of femininity, my holy skirt to ransack and oscill in lugubriously vibratory miasmous pulsations. My scent-factory, my Central Central Womantelligence agency. The Zenir of my Nadith! My core competency! The inner base on which I draw my strength! My cactus! My Welshman of Belgium, my astroplexus of Cantor! My dynamic hip-possessor! My transnational supply chain, my astrological compass! My transpetroglyphics anonymous confessor! My very own mid-Nineteenth century pseudotalmudic French Existentialist philosophy! I scream and cry at the microseismic distortions which her feet make in the ground. I toss with glee at the sight of her body. I am overcome with the trilogy of eros, philos, and what was the other one? Agave? Tequila? Yes, that's it! Eros, Philadelphia, and Tequila, when I breathe her scent. I pulse and shudder to think of her."
Wartefunkelis sez of Mengwharve: "A singularly crimson wollop-wharf of incomprehensible traffic-jams. An undirected summons to the corpulent neutrino of status worship and diseased conception. His methods, his message, his structure all shriekingly declare an unrivaled incompetence. Mengwharve's inaccuracy is studied. His imprecision a work of art. His clumsiness is miraculously developed. If there is an inner sanctum of twithood, he is the temple monk. While I try to lubricate and smooth the confusing, congealed array of arroyos which is his star-stallion of a mind, he continues to amaze me with the buttery clash of his mind's continual malfunctioning."
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