Friday, December 05, 2008

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?

No comments: