Transfinitesimal archprofundum

Doctor Wengzvoknow E. Writheleigh declared that he was unaware of the declension of the nostrils, a bottom or a box of sulphides, a paradoxical extension of his favorite wallaby, a binary misaccomplishment or some type of electromechanical approximation that had to be carried in thousands of parts ofrom here to there, a kind of citrus scented iguana bee. Dr. Writheleigh had a mismanaged series of notes that he had collected throughout the years, all written in disorganized fashion with a poor rabbit-calligraphy pen and a pair of quantum calipers. All with a jazz-hand and a razor-tongue, he accomplished much in his stay at the Craihghar, a plenipotentiary gas-barge or a wullins or a mustard god or an insect-telegraphist might have a tourniquet and then communicate with the gasgrieves of the collective misunderstanding: sighted by the plenitudes, Dr. Writheleigh had declared that, upon pain of peace, "The basso profundo of the ghostgas leaves me not discontented. I am the gas giant of the rhomb! Oh, my plenty lissencephalopathies requires more than I can manage in some type of half-time", amongst other less thoroughly thought out epithets and swears to the Bananamatter god. Like someone with a charged muon might pass for a countryside inspector or a galactic tollbooth operator with cigarillos and a lapsed subscription to /American Fundamentalism Coffeeklatsch/ slowly smouldering because the fifth of the toke had some kind of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons just laying about. Or else. Or someone completely different with no relation to the Queen of Belgium in the year -130,304 R.Q. (Reliquary Quotient), to misunderestimate my nuclear approximations, a fundamental nutjob with a preferences for isothiocyanate snoobies in the back room and perhaps having a c3po moment with the font aristocrats before the third reel shows, and the networks that we rely on have nothing to fund their badly tuned communcations and communiqués.