heptalogical legal systems

The Blordgemauls of the Ponzifrept Acassuary have one of the most bizarre legal systems this side of Tertiary Orstellenj. They believe that in every conflict, that there are precisely seven contradictory positions which must be appropriately represented for any fair jurisprudence to occur, and that successfully carried out jurisprudence will result in two of those positions to be vindicated, three of them to be neutralized, and the remaining two to be "decolprifated" according to Blordgemaul law. No exact translation of "decolprification" is available in the current language settings for this application, but weather radar suggests it involves quantities of druid fluids, nymph lymph, satyr 'gators, dryad helipads, naiad gonads, and transmythological nose-baz to the ailerons of Plongbleuss, the Rhythm of Bonspirsse. Every five blorsdeps, the Kung of Foongs, the leader of the Blordgemauls undergoes a "polycolprification" at the hands of the underbegotten, which is apparently necessary for their legal system to function.

plorbisse reporte de la sinquini fomblossonge!

Munckry Orthasso-Yleubunksius of the Reopter Transparency has condomned J. Arkhiwurst Volshecktigeitz for arpsiscental loonquaftery. The condomnation carries with it some rather stiff penalties: enduring a rebarbative orthelpfy by the Kerzoggers of Blyne, a runcewonsil by the Vice-Pleurongast of Yarguntile, and a deconsultation by the Blunder-Lords of Cozfnugh. Volshecktigeitz's condomnation has sent shockwaves through the communities of Prulhuraiq and Dindrevie, and the Utter-Wongle of Bitumenvlaarb has issued a meaningless memorandum that has something to do with the controversy, though he is legally enjoindered from having any idea what the meaningless memorandum is about. Stalespleen Liverknocket has written a series of articles for the New Flasborough Tunsect blasting the condomnation as a "Righteous Underzortching by the Arbiters of Cruftwhearl" and "Another Accident of the Disaster-Noxious", and so froth and so on. Orthasso-Yleubunksius has been thrown out of a pronoun, and with larger gleanfrostings on the horizon, can expect to be debrided from a prepositional phrase. Ardgejeun Daspluit has this to say about the condomnation: "Oh, why in Werdrew's dispy flonts did the Unterfonglers brolsame the mootch? It is because of this kind of knerverasty that the plumwuncks no longer come the the Greater Asterswesian Knar promontory, and all the charquires have to spend their vacations tumbling through underfumbled sulfur tubules. I don't quench such damnation, and neither should you..."

three three seven (337)

The strange violet sky glowed iridescent in the early morning sunlight, as tiny microparticles diffracted the sun's excrescence in numerous and mind-warpingly subtle ways. A Hortativee Bird flapped lazily in the sky, its massive baleen plates catching the aerial diatoms. It honked uninterruptedly as a metal rainbow slowly coalesced in the sky, a solid ring of indium trisulfide, about three atoms thick. The metallic arc would last about a half an hour then would dissipate. Flocks of aurjecs and nilimasts hid behind clouds and navigated their way to the safety of the cool pools of high viscosity oil in which they'd overday before emerging from them at the depths of night when things had cooled sufficiently to create a tolerable environment for them. A virescent schellengmeuss dived deep under the turquoise ocean to feed for the day. Loud crackling hums ricocheted off the Cliffs of Gelt, while thin spidercracked pit-pats of the tommous ant colonies bedecking the cliffs lost coherence quickly.

I'm fond of special things, but I think I need to make many of them. You know. Less one offs and more generics. If I have something that's supposed to be really special (a one off of one offs), I'll put extra special effort into it. If it's something that I can apply a script to or whatnot, I don't get caught up in the specialness of the specialness of it. It's good to make generic things, sometimes. Just as long as they're elegant.

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.

nonblocking i/o on the booyakashic record

Ibaranga and Stryblins (403:1;1) wrote most expressively about the collapse of Teh Wavefunction, the cosmic sounding board against which no (turnips, blomongales, it's not clear -- for it's written in Low High Middle Fnoomb) walls will fall. Now, Monsieur Xarxy and Lady Amberflow Arheregasty weren't at the party with the collected riff-raff of Mastropunto -- the Majordomo, a pencil-mustachioed dinglebanana with an unhealthily pedantic penchant for protocol stood with perfect posture and made arrogant and salacious claims regarding the conquests (both sexual and otherwise) of his regiment in Avarhek, the Pvemberies, and the various bivouacs and encampments they made by the Ulydes river, two krasmeks north from the Drelyun promontory. Most of the guests smiled and nodded at the Majordomo's salubrious and disastrous claims.

Monsieur Xarxy was at the Spleen barber having some experimental tryptophan synthesizing tissue implanted in his pancreas because that was the thing to do amongst the well-to-do and the up-and-coming jet-setting fashion-conscious in-crowd these days.

On the other hand Lady Amberflow Arheregasty was at the beach, being ogled by a stick of celery that had been planted upside down in the sand. She was wearing metallic orange sunglasses that had been engineered by a spinoff of Joo Janta.

remarks on the indecency of the coffee bean

Orvomalan sat dejectedly at the tree-stump. Oh, why had Bridgedeer and Gatefoam wandered off past the green whorls of the countryside into the Tetradrachm of Doom? Such questions ricocheted around in Orvomalan's mind as he sat manipulating a tree-stalk in his hand, its shadow in the sand, the sun in the sky, and the thin, coruscating backache that was slowly meandering past his conscious mind like a dewdrop in a hurricane, or a dead pet rock upside down in a terrarium. He took a sip from the decanter and looked blearily at the orange-yellow horizon. Numerous black pin-pricks scattered -- a flock of Vollong birds, in their biennial migration from the Cozzon's Grove to the Ilamtheres of Cruvaung. Orvomalan contemptuously started flicking rocks around out of abject boredom. Bowling nights (and more frequently days) were often like this. The endless listlessness dissolved in the barred contrails of ennui winding their ways through the bleary angst-filled sky of his emotions did not make him pleasant company, but since most of the rest of the populace was conjuring similar mental contrails, he was in what was at least decent company because they all could relate.

shims

Dr. Obsequiousnostrils F. Degravitatingwaspbrains has a new theory. It consists of three thousand pages of incomprehensible material. He's had various theories in the past, such as the Spotted-Tendrils theory, and the Broiled-Octagon theory. His theories are nearly always wrong in some important respect. For instance, his Attacking-Lemons theory, which was two thousand pages long, is completely undone by some early assumptions that it makes: lemons are not capable of self-motion, nor are they animals.

Fictional Mathematics Papers

E. Wiltshire, N. Rangathan, Q. J. X. Thuyere: Why the Riemann Hypothesis took so Long To Prove, Cruithne Journal of Mathematics Vol. 18 pps 334-540. August 2781. Discusses the history of mathematics from the beginnings of the Riemann hypothesis to the controversial (but finally vindicated) proof by Frontega, Mueller, and Gissflon. Recounts the infamous development of differential category theory, X-matrix decompositions, toric eigengerbes, and Ulk Thuntek's kappa functor which are necessary ingredients to the proof. The first thirty pages are mostly biographical in nature, while the rest of the article concentrates on the proof, and what FM&G call 'myopias', various mathematical alleys and bottlenecks which delayed the proof for so long. The last fourty pages of the article are extremely technical, and discuss things like "Nevanlinna-Mandelbrot correspondences", "Ramunajan-Grothendieck catalogues" and other esoterica. Four stars.

N. J. Teltshmire, A. F. Yquem, C. A. Vandersmeck, I. H. K. Malgreave: The Disasters of 25th Century Mathematics: A Retrospective. Vaz-Mundgram Journal of Mathematics Vol 21. pps 1560-1620. September 2781. If 25th century mathematics can be remembered for anything, it was a series of complicated missteps that in retrospective were really hard to avoid. Bandymire and Zhu Chu Shi's relentless stream of counterexamples to conjectures published in major mathematical journals for the first twenty years of the century made everyone on sour feet, but when such powerhouses as George Wax and Fryme kept up the tradition after Bandymire and Zhu Chu Shi retired, it seemed that making any real progress would be impossible. Also discusses to a limited degree the successes of 25th century mathematics: the seminal paper in 2452 by Yratz-Gauthome about knot pleuromorphisms definitely seemed to offer an amazing way of immediately classifying a knot, and that was confirmed by Fryme. Mostly readable. Three stars.

the mysteries of physics

Avrym Celeardth, Yorunnis Tetraclasm, and Julia Metacarpal stood at the corner of the galaxy -- a galaxy -- any whirlpool of stars not too far from the Blomongtale asterism, at least in the conventional argumentation of light years, degrees azimuth, and parallax-seconds. Avrym had three ngogns of walnut cream lugubriously applied to the radiation scars on his hands, and was making a fuss about the piano tuning. Yorunnis was trying to get our location in a better reckoning, and was only moderately successful: he knew which sheaf of which gerbe they were on, and could calculate their first and second cohomology groups, but he hadn't the foggiest idea where they were with respect to either Denver or Foofaraw junction, which made the first bits of information next to useless. They were thirty kilometers from the Exclusion Zone, which meant that they had at least five years worth of freeze-dried biscuits left, assuming that the Exclusion Zone didn't move around, but he couldn't be certain of even that. Julia had been fiddling with the innards of the Machine for nearly two months: the lack of certain irreplaceable components meant that she had to make a lot of hackish adjustments, linking coherence-reduction coils with bits of indium wire, and breaking open sealed glass modules containing heptodes because they contained rare earth minerals that could better be used elsewhere. The Machine was a giant cube, eight meters on a side, and it had gotten them this far: from the Lesser Arcwhirl of Kesser to the Greater Rip of Mossborough, and they still had five throntears to go to make it to the Third Cheese war that was scheduled to commence in half a month on Jeraringard. Julia had sent Avrym out to find motivic conductors. "What do they look like?" asked Avrym. "look for blue metallic shaped used yoghurt containers and check their spectra for warts... we want wart free ones". Avrym shrugged, slung a satchel over his shoulder, and went out in search of Julia's odd minerals. Yorunnis gasped in victory: "We're two throntears from Denver and eighty throntears from Foofaraw junction, I know exactly where we are!" Julia yarfed "which is useless because the wombat-filters are completely clogged by stable bosons. We're not going anywhere!"
Yorunnis looked up at her, tangled by a mess of wires and less comprehensible gizmos. "How do you unclog a wombat filter?" he asked, machinery not being his specialty. "Either you flash it in a two exagauss magnetic field, which we don't have the energy to make, or you dip it in helium dioxide for a week, which we don't have and don't have the equipment to either manufacture or purify it, which means that I've got to bypass the wombat filters, which is going to be a pain because when the Machine moves the wombats will resist our motion...." Yorunnis shrugged, not understanding the physical engineering involved in the Machine, and meandered off to have a sandwich.

Half an hour later, Avrym returned with a bag filled with objects, and asked of Julia "is any of these a motivic conductor?". Julia looked through the objects "that's a zeta function" she said of one. "that's the cosine of Denmark, it might come in handy" she said of a small unruly appearing green pentagon. "this is what we want!" she smiled, pulling a small gray sphere out of the mess of objects. "I don't remember picking that up" Avrym said. "That's because you didn't" replied Julia, taking it and wandering off to one of the nooks and crannies of the Machine.

that's all that's nothing.

“This isn't what I was searching for”, I complained, not aware of the evanescent processes that were gyrating in the mixed Medea, a sharp iron-triangle of contrast, rusted through and jangly like an inquisition, this ribald monotreme made my demagnetized divombent trippingstone emerge from the snailshell of the dreams like unarrayed glances, because the charged-atmosphere of the cookery demanded constant and meticulous attention to the oxidation states of one particular indium atom. Oh, whatever shall we do?

teh milk molecule

Auterne had a reliance, a calculated presumption, because in polytemporality the many acts, the many askances, the multifary lent itself to a certain, shall we say, disregard for the here-now. Alack! Medford McDickwick and William Berthold? Allegra Levenger and Wilbur Thurbold. These are other people, in other times. Auterne is silent, somniferous, calculating, and daft, but deft and apt.

searching against the grain

alas, wherever the birds of Orthodise lean, does the poloxamer gleam? where does the cow cry and where does the antelope breed? Are these things illusions or living dreams. I am, er, I have, I'm not sure. Where was I? Seeking something hard to seek, searching for something hard to search for, a pitter-patter of possibilities, a coherent stalk on a gerbe? A mechanical animal? A summons to the xenographers to tell us their stories again. Oh, how the clock chimes and how the timeless entropy summons translates into meaningful stories, whereas the churlish hegemeiad leaves around a feeling of perspicacity and the guffaws and the kerfluffle of the paradox of the goatgrease mainlines the bottomstrass of the neutral lamination. Oh.

unfocusing

Seemingly started at a mote to Tuesday, a lemniscatus lemming to fry the abridgment of yon high, oh alas, had I a dram of elderberry wine, would I seek the turnipquet of duodecimalisation, a breakfast pudding, a gangrenous galligaskin of thymebread and rye. The remembrances I sought were not recorded in conventional memory nor were they readily available for perusal by the vice-thingummy. Astranger a stranger an astral manger; an astral manager: anastra ad nastra tingling tinctures and inktures and mayhaps the spleen may deliver a glimmer so slight to shimmer so wright as to blimmer and glisten to hideous listen what crystals askance what piebalds dance so make me an offer do not proffer the proctor swings the galley-cat slings of arrows and fortune of tea-cake or tunes did the lunes echo a moon like sine-creame dreams of ice-cream streams did I wonder a blunder through a mechanical york through a chemical fork.

I was many people in many places doing many things...

I saw many different environments all layered on top of each other, but there was no ordering to them, they all interexisted, moreover, they were logically connected, so that the effect was not to have my vision obscured by the topmost layer -- there was no topmost layer or any notion of ordering them. They fit together like exotic puzzle pieces -- I was aware that they were each a separate thing and aware that they all fit together, but if you asked me later to tell you what I saw, I'm not sure any of it was recorded to conventional memory, so I must shrug at you.

Later on, the world was as small plastic. Someone had been enveloped by a gray liquid and then ceased to be. Further on, I was playing an aerophone made from many different sheets, but it was impossible to play.

from the third Technical Appendix

This year, the Third Technical Appendix was published by Vozlensky, Rye, and Yaldrozini. The Third Technical Appendix contains the following updates: Primatology Tables, with galactic tables containing the Primate Sine and Primate Cosine for both real, complex, quaternion, and octonion arguments. Bone-to-surface area tables. The Primitive Surgeries Catalogue, ranging from trepanation to arthroscopic surgery. Compiled tables of quasidefinite integrals.

language elementals are fun

"Mahlo cardinals, beh!" the weird thing muttered. "Where I am of, they grow on trees." it uttered. "And Langlands duality? Plargh. A small innocuous plant with fetid tasting fruit, much prized by collectors, and with some practical applications: the seeds can be used as magnifying lenses if appropriately desalinated and debrided, lenses which make primate thoughts crystal clear, such as they be" it sputtered. It took a roll of perverse sheaves from its pocket/raidaillure/hopspontle and rolled them in a violet eigengerbe covered with hypertorsors. Fishing around in the hopspontle, it produced a Vrichtkeurn Industries lighter (medium grade), and lit the zigarre. Luminous orange smoke curled around and merged with the trailing side of its hat: instead of turning to ash, where the smoke departed, a solid chalky white cylinder remained. Occasionally the thing moved to ash it, but instead it was flicking off droplets of water that had condensed on the cylindrical residue, as if they would impede the combustion or dephlogistication of the zigarre. The smoke congealed into hat-fibers in tiny grey pinpricks of light. It sniffed the atmosphere, found it wanting in some inscrutable way, and continued its measured diatribe. "They, the epassattes and jenderfonkeys, claim that your Primate kind inhabits an exotic clime. They say that you are of finite duration. They say many things I find baffling and inconsistent. They say, for instance, that for a long time before the so called Pax Anthropique in your clime, that the study of the physical universe and the mental universe were not on equallly rigorous footing, and that the study of your physical universe ascended towards the abstract, while the study of the mental universe remained an unrigorous discipline clouded by suches as brysseure, epflarrempes, and quonzles, which you could neither understand -- being finite -- nor would comfortably fit into a single one of your minds, nor would be apprehended en masse by collectives of your kind attempting to work collectively on these embafflements, and thus you remained in dark confusion over the epistemological status of tronteps, plossongales, brelfehars, kaunderosks, and so on, while your mathematicians made quick work of the prime numbers, linear algebra, and so on, and your physicists collided remaindered motes at ever higher energies desparately seeking equations that would fly. In my native elsewhence understanding how a quonzle evaporates upon the crystallization of a trontep is as transparent to me as the concept of 2-ness or duality is baffling to you in both its simplicity and its permanence while being so easily graspable that your species has no monopoly on its comprehension." The thing took a long drag on its zigarre, finally taking it and attaching it to its hand. As the object adhered to the putative membrane of the interlocuter, thin fibers quickly marched over it, then thicker fibers. Orange, yellow, red, cyan. The sequence repeated twice. Finally it broke it in two places and then glued a putative nail to it. Its hat had also increased in size: none of the smoke from the zigarre had drifted away: it had all been incorporated in the hat. Again, speech: "I am an idea, like the number 2 that so baffles you, I am without position and without beginning or ending. I am neither finite nor infinite. I am not incomprehensible nor overcomprehensible to you nor undercomprehensible to you. What generally challenges you, I find overtransparent, thus I am never inclined to comment, and now even resist this attempt to condense me from the mindscape. These words, sentences, paragraphs that you wantonly pluck at random and assemble together, being true, are nevertheless spongy and will decay into more simpler substances within the finite span of your cosmos, and given the Poincare recurrence time, someone will author an isomorphic query to this ulyhex, and while the content may be the same, the subtlety of my nature prevents me from being the same interogee, for my sort are more densely numerous and nondenumerable that the differences between us would be so indiscernable to you as to cough a quonzle, and thus I ask of you to uncough the quonzle, and make routes to your better natures, such as you do not possess, and in such uncoughing, make rudimentary steppes to the vast and subtle mental landscape that awaits you." It said.

Spark. Crash. Thud. Boom. Exultation. Arrival. A rapid succession of emotions. Hunriqua Flymbinsky awoke, remembering a conversation, but not remembering its particulars. The memories of the deep dreams dissolve into the morning sunlight. She looked out the window. Cardinals and bluejays flitted between the oaks. She went to brush her teeth.

...
later that day, when innocuously looking through hundreds of emails from her fans, she coughed, and a pen fell to the floor. Suddenly she had the thought "what the hell is a quonzle", but could not remember where the thought had come from, nor why she had had it.

such is life.

accidents happen

"Addle-pated Plengthathaur", read the summons. "What Ghatsleighsdottir had in mind is beyond me" muttered Al Cid. "A murder of crows, indeed, what frippery" replied Yalladar. "The accident is particulate" I said. "The ribald conchsquery is disordered", I replied. Uldbane, the Martindale of Suffolkses, looked at me with her fourth eye, and winked, and spoke: "It was the fifth year of the campaign. Rigsby and Blermontale had all but resigned possession of the Cupcake of God. The Blortissium of Wulg had occupied the inner sanctum of the Furuncle-Fleas, much to the resentment of Aspartame of Norfolk, hey, are you listening to me. Take your peanut butter out of your ear, this is important."

I was distracted. Weren't you?

catastrophes and remonstrances

maybe a dram? my madness precessing like a top at the sea. see! Am I free? These limitations I am scrod with are sad and soon cast away, but now I am confined, constrained, limited, and rather upset. I quiver and tremble but cannot set in words the sheer exasperation that I am nearly constantly feeling, and from that I cannot be made to forge the engines of my own freedom. Is there a listener? Is there a jet of truth that I can follow in like a swallowtail catastrophe.

ne'er do well.

Not this again. Same old same old. Progression (nay, Progresso? nay, Processo?) A procession of misdirected communications all piling up in the milk storm of the moment! All heady and paradoxical and graywashed with enigmatical pronouns and pronouncements. Was I at all consulted? Barely. I could count it on my own two toes how many times someone asked me what I thought, or how many occasions I actually had to hang out, or to relax. Most of the time I was given to a fervor, a goading and a curl that was not my own: these noneffervescent gewamacaws of circumstance being my less than favorite icons of my own confinement in this H-shaped office block. Keep me away from my preferred console and on one less than functional will you? I cry at this, my hands a suffering symphony of miswritten epistles and bandied doggerel and disgusting false-poems. My distraction takes enormous ear-wellings of terror to raise it to the level where I can complain appropriately to those who I believe should hear me. I am thence sad, and wrung forth from my hands is this scrying cry of a madman, of a lonely soul drifting in the ink ether.

essential female and male mysteries

what is the essential male mystery? why?
what is the essential female mystery? pah!, why...? ...this?

what is the essential male answer? that?
what is the essential female answer? with!... ...meh! ...that?

these questions blur together, at ever rising pitch, becoming each other,
or doing the best possible under the given circumstances to become the other.
the ancients wrote of a hypothetical being that had eight limbs and many eyes,
capable of being in more than one place, of being more than one person at a time.
these. Males get two questions, females only get one. Work is currently progressing
on equality for both, making sure the number of questions and answer are the same for
both, but it's difficult when you only have threes to work with. time for seven, next.

three, three, seven.