The Traceless Christina Ricci Tensor and the Cardassian cosmology

Hereptma Sarbivin's genial coughing had attracted the attention of a buzzing noise, a bumbling bee of some repute (or some reeuptake, depending on the synapse of our mutual misattention) in Srelvwharve and Upper Laurasia, Grand Buccy of Sylmorea, and the Pobbobs of Blyvpvana. Aghast at the potential for epidemiological disaster, Sarbivin had quickly meandered to the local apocath and ordered half a dram of Colonel Havvaster Micturub's Famous Spicy Purple Octagon Ointment to take with her tea in order to coat her throat and aid in the commonweal. She had been hanging out by the Western Kettle and had been accosted by some British Bishops (which were neither British nor Bishops -- they were roly-poly men with gin blossom'd faces who tried to sell religions at the bazaar in the Kettle) while old Mrs. Enderflongle Ardgeorge was bartering a bossom of butter for a packet of highly purifed Pantarianism from the Bishops. A fully obnoisome lady, Ardgeorge bustled and hustled and hushed and shushed as the Bishops courted her attentions with wild and fantastic religions from faraway lands and distant clades.

Hereptma avoided the confusion, easily dodging both the Bishops and Enderflongle, obtained her ointment, and headed back to her home.