breadmaker, breadmaker, make me a loaf...

Sga. Valbrun noticed it first: I had the tongue. Secondly a committee was formed in the Valley of the Lesser Vrennule. Thirdly, Sara Shtra came home with a baguette of A1 Grade French Bread, certified by the bread sommeliers of the Sorbonne and the Ecole Hypertechnique in Dujours. Was it a breakdancing yeast enzyme? A Beta-Gal assay to make the Rembrandts of breadsmiths jealous? If such incomprehensible ideas are deployed to starched and staunch public support, will the future of the nuclear toaster be ensured? Those Rembrandts and their associated Glutenwrights have been itching for some genetically engineered Saccharomyces cerevisiae: they want prehensile enzymes, or “prehenzymes”, as they (and hyperintelligent bread yeast) are seen to be the key to making transcendent bread: loaves of such sheer flavor that they cause arrest of all conscious processes. Of course, the Archvatriotists of Vemglen-Zarhyve believe that the only legally appropriate classification of such bread is as a munition, or as an atavistic toxin only to be (which means none at all) employed in religious rituals. Nobody takes them seriously. We look forward to transcendant bread in the next two years.

getting my groove back

The piebald accusations of one Mr. Eggfnunt Whillerathy of 2345 Zencus Lane, Phrentham, New Zockwick are entirely false: they presume that the Aocthere of Yellins Circus, is not, in fact, depolarized. However, Prefesser Lemvacqua D. Varbionsis proved in her seminal paper The Polarization States of the Aoctheres, that it is numismatically impossible for any Aocthere within five milli-rex-gargs of Yellins Circus to be either depolarized or polarized either because of tight closure or because of the insolubility of cheese in trapezoidally shaped pieces of cardboard: I don't remember, for I didn't read the paper too closely, you see, I wasn't myself at the time: in fact I was probably a small piece of celery when the paper was circulating in the libraries. But repetition is the key, or is the key integer sequences. I believe the key might have been found in the land of Rarg, but the number of hydrogen atoms in the Crab Nebula begs to differ. It was ecstatically prime at the time. Or it was having some type of ecdysis at the time. But Palm Frond Girl and Didgeridoo-Boy weren't available to save the day: they were busy computing some cement at the neighborhood computational complex, and also batting a neutron and a nosy muon away that were too damn curious for their own eigengood. Prefesser Lemvacqua D. Varbionsis has a lot to say about that too, but most of it is completely unprintable, and involves toric varietes of coriander and other vice-obscenites scrawled in marmalade and onions. However she had recently recieved a Postfessorship from the University of Galanafrenegal and was not available for comment because she was too busy installing a new VSAH-machine (type 9, forty exaqubits of main thinkum and twelve fleegogs of supplementary thinkum).

Fomalhaut informality

Binary jewel attack tensor starguttingly kinesthetica nasophalangeal revolution is the stackblasting denouemont of misrepresentationally isotopologous cone arbitration and my beakbreak villonga needs only 1ml of wood per glass to deal with the state transition functions and what the hell was that fixed point? Didn't I have an analytic representation, a shortcut, a compact representation of an infinite process, but do I deal in loop-invariants or am I asking the sort of questions that Vileggiasti-Arjun-Smythe might have proposed to Smaravinga Raghavamorphouslessness during the end of the seventh Ornithium? Vast charges make the Ising lattice of the Gods cry: have you made any lolskeptics or lolmadmen today?

something unprintable

The ensembles of activity leave much in the way of odoriferous contrails along this leading-edge mpombe. Was I not the major-meniscus of the charring-cross moment-scone that I had to grok the decay time mastery without the help of a bird-assistant? I should think so, because the mastery of the terminal process leads me to believe that I was absent at the focusing hour: now, focus is not something that I can seem to keep: there are all these other things happening and my attention is continually elsewhere. Some little art works, but most is distraction and noise and my covert attempts to see more clearly have been met with little but thin contrails of my own lack of focus. my own apparent dishevelled collage of mucilaginous inopprobrium, some wheezing mechanical insect running out of low molecular weight hydrocarbon fuel and just hoping for another continuation of the uneroded moment, a ticket to a train filled by artists and sand-gougers and other unseemly autocrats and autolysts and what-have-yous parading their dynarchic wheneverwhells against the particulate rich loam, rich in mineral deposits and other assorted molecular materials

nothing of consequence

The swirls and mutinees of the secondary timeliness recondite parabola leave much in the way of unscathed prolegomena which to calculate and then focus and centralize the capacities of meditation, like I'm sure this is something that I've experienced before and thus have no bacteriological imaginings which to base the foundations for a nonrepetetive cluster of basal ganglia and ionic concentrations assuaged the fundamental principles of the tensorial languages and then concentrated as much as possible on the sleep or what have you, even becoming even more frustrated at this keyboard as my wide focus and lack of focus made for an unenlightening thingy

the doozy

The term had ended, and I was going away for my yearly retreat, far in the foothills of an Eastern District. But, the snow, and the rain: neither of these were expected in the quantities which I observed. My retreat was going to have other rough spots (insufficient iodine consumption leading to goiter not one of them), but just getting off the ground appeared to be certain to be a complicated doozy that I really didn't want to deal with.

not per text field

The strangers convening at the Akathisium had many a corded wood moment in the astraterrestrials to concern themselves with, or did they? Were their records not a confused array of radiotelescopes and other assorted recieving equipment all arrayed nicely and neatly, but instead a massive agglomeration of confused neutrinotelescopy diodes and gravitational anomaly scanners (all of this advanced equipment powered by a nine volt battery, of course.) Did Good King Wenceslas command a drummond and a dreamsleuth to predict the compagne's way out of the mudspires of Gaursaurronga? Or were the visionsmythes of Caruradril inexpert in the art of navigation by sextant or other longitudinally aware mechanisms? I believe that the dithyrambs of the disguised musicians were instead aching to be replaced by large indium-strontium behemoths? Were the fires of yore a blasted misanthropy that my caudal sinuses did not reflect accurately? I had no excynic to reduce and then were the material martindales a statistical candor oh what glee, oh what ribald remonstrances, oh what confused energy that's all over the place and not exactly what I had in mind when I read the contrails: were the prevailing doldrums what you expected to see or were they some type of anomalous thingy?

vagaries and vapidities

In the thin indium tinted contrails of the metallic phase I searched amongst the derivations and the deep forest for the peculiar indigo odor of the modular ghostgrease heptacle: these mystic rites were dissolved in the spirit of the age and then retracted using modern, sterile, surgical techniques which avoided blood and the need to spill the lymph of the innocent. Barromeghe Fulminius wasn't seen leaving the pub at two o'clock in the evening. Did the Mother of Pearl even authorize an inaccurate biography, written in the hemolymph of the Abridged Insect God? I doubt it: she's rather cantankerous and voraciously meticulous about who she will allow to write her hagiographies. But I fail to digress: had I been the Minister of Vagaries and Ambiguities, I would have penned an incomprehensibly opaque screed about the improprieties of linear logic as applied to the sex lives of Precambrian badgers (no mammals existed in the Precambrian so it really isn't a problem) or the slipperiness of weak omega categories or what have you. I'm bad at this so bear with me here, as my notes were deliberately lost by one of my subordinates several hours ago, so my preparations for this talk have been curtailed. Instead of a three week party, I have had to scrawl on the back of a napkin using mustard in a language that I am legally enjoindered from knowing: it is exactly for this reason that I have taken up knitting while the heavyweights at the Bureau decide the fate of my nasturtia: have I taken leave of my senses with these rather pathetic tales of ribald conquest and insane ink patterns? I know not why the sparrow tumbles or the green timbrels of Gansanhahar lie so uproariously, but had I expected that their intestinal metafortitude had some deep connection with the concoctions of the Norse Gods! What shash! Had I a dram of edam on the eve of the revolution I would sell my gouda to the gigantic Cheese Mob in order to have a fleeting telegraphy between here and Mandroborough: how did I manage to procreate at a quarter to two to two tonight. Man, these incoherent nabobwangs of miscommunication give me a frisson of corneal lassarango agonists which bring about the fear of the tomorrowyesterday. Did Tommy quote me those figures correctly? I can't remember, I was bottled up in the truncated tursiopotomy. Did I see the way through to peace? I'm not sure, were you?

oggvollags

Erebus? The frennule had a martin? I was wan and pale and miscalculated badly? Is the approximant a binary number with prawn biryani? I had no cleve? I was unsure, and decided to check with the appropriations committee and then the mountain of stuffed animals came tumbling down, and I was crying: it was too much for me to cope with, the sad face of someone hugging a stuffed animal and crying for comfort; Being alive is a burden: stuff comes in and stuff goes out and it's a complicated dance and if you manage to bite off some indigestible ennui that cannot be broken down by the normal influx and efflux of the seasons it becomes a slowly dying persimmon of bitter that just floats around, unattached to anything, and incapable of being melted or effluviated or effervesced into the ether.