Friday, April 04, 2008
The improbable chalice is just that: improbable, but more to the point it is unprovable and numerous with assertions that the container of the liquid contains nothing of note: it is the end of the sea, the tempest in a teapot that charges the dynamic castellan of the chancellery typefaces, of the major mechanical mysteries of existence like a droll altostratus cloud seething in the pre-storm and then becoming just another queasy and transquotidian lamination of the neutrino-jazz elephantiasis functor cleaning depot at the edges of the metropolitan areas, just another jiva of the surreal brick-moment awaiting the thin babbling rivers of sussurrant orthogonal onions in a great giant locked sea of here-minor.
awaiting the seven pirouettists made the manic xenophobe propose a summons to the prespective perspectives that awaited the inhabitants of Wollorongoa, the tribal village by which Allerengoa and Lord Govvorongoa hail from in the myth-stories that weave the mythopoetic rivulets by which the cavepeople dances happen. It's a charged rhino, an ionized rhinovirus, a hippocampopotamus, a believer, a fire, a backhoe, a probabilistic immersion into the sea of changes, a wishbone, a preparation, a differential probability bearing, a -- did you forget? Did the Stonglevungler come to your antennule and propose a rebracketing of terms only beneficial to its quasimatriarchy? Of what did the many occupants of the Ghost Bus and Velour Dragons make the statement that they could realize the only monomaniac in Paris with a shimmering, cascading sea of fire-changes, and vector-commits to the local data repository. But if I were to enumerate the accidental misapprehensions of the Vunglerwhungles I would have a nine to five job and my name would be "John QSmith QSmithonian", and I would have at least nine fatal and mutually contradictory nasophalangeal diseases attacking my third atrium of my transferior chromoluminescent elf-filtration organ. Bivpuano! It's not as if I can charge the fire to the calculating Mandroborough Onion Depot for a fifth of a millikrill! Bananas!
"Why yes", argled Miss Santiva Avvwhongle "I believe in the Chromolune", what lunacy, though the Casterverry of Tossolch, a delightfully wacky substraction of a vanverfoodler, a zovvich-fungler, the Master Of the Arte of the Octopungle, SGNR. Salvorian Sinvessimus. Salvorian Sinvessimus, that confused old goon complicated and complaining about the untranslatable messages that he was given in the last cycle by a robotic beetle, not sure of the pentabular octroplasy, but certain, one might even go as little to say "dead certain" about the votive misaccuracies being provided to the students of the zeitgeist that the mandibular phalanges of the New Kansan Birtvoigler are not polarized according to the local magnetic field or that having a say in where the Tea Knights have their next Confusion Campaign might make one aghast at the thought that one might believe that the Tea Knights and their Confusion Campaigns were some bleary salt-stained excuse for wandering from Toronto to Toledo by the Transhyperborean Conduit that so many of the travellers in this day and age are likely to use because they actually know better. "I so do not believe in the Chromolune: my response is vague and vaporous!"
I tainted the sleeping beetle: the secondary recommendation of the future occupants of all spacetime had a helical twist to the right as the crow flies: the magical moment of the f-i ligature has always happened, and has never happened in this nahambe. By the Cormorants of the Unsung Leratiun Gamvolbotty I had a wonzlo sterling for all of the misquoted piper rainbow nickelodeon campy-kitsch machine blinkenlights interruptors: I was at the bottom of my game, my misaccuracy was the least of my problems at that point: I didn't want to leave new Mandroborough for Flendavar or Bialkenius. The transdiphthongous itinerants who drifted through on various electromagnetic spectral oscillations because we hadn't yet sealed those chance-pleats in the great Pair of The Cosmic Pants: I advocated a relaxed attitude of lazy evaluation and passable water molecule mandanganai at every concievable opportunity: our concierge had made it clear to us that to take the mu bus would require us to surrender a mu token, and this was by far the most reasonable and comprehensible request we had of us for the entire tour, for we weren't instructed to put mustard up our nostrils, or to repolarize the ether, or to vacuum-spark the dynarchy of the ulterior motives, or to perform change of basis multimodular preserving hypertransformations on the local nassgreve germ field: if your eyes hadn't glazed over by this point they would soon glaze over from the sheer amount of incomprehensible information being presented at such a rapid and nearly unbelievable pace: what the hell is a “ semisphenic polychromic G-module preserving Fravxanal transformation on the subsidiary Willings Space”? all about anyway -- it is a mystery to me, and my mathematics isn't bad, either.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
There is a language called Arrhé which looks something like this “ Bivpongué da usarnea au ikusifaron ma faron aitenga audurhé na aparnhep da allerengoa na govvorongoé na isirnhe da pilontifar...”. I hear that the University of Cirappan in Cirappany Here-Major is looking for someone to translate a variety of works into the Serafinian language. I really doubt that they're going to find anyone any time soon. The speakers of Serafinian are at least twelve light-metanahambes away from Cirappan.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
knowing that the interior Tetrahedron of the Delay State had its own transmechanical Congreve Ocean was surreptitious: no one but no one would have suspected that such an obvious location in the Cosmic Memory had been aliased: but it was verifiably and exultantly true, just only so in which a way required discovery by appropriately timed parties made from the proper materials and synthesized in the appropriate fashion by the Engines of Forgetfulness. By the Truth of the Certified Banana, we sow and reap the fields of our ideas, awaiting the Centriole of Belief that we have been promised.