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.

We are the Alienoids

The following transmission was recieved at the Barack Obama VII satellite radiotelescope orbiting Io, and was translated into English by Dr. Frencklesnarf D. Huyjientheis: “We are the Alienoids, from a far distant planet. We will send UFOs to your miniature planetesimal to do strange and peculiar things to the Belgians. We are the Alienoids. We will then prescribe peculiar medications to your Frog-Oblongiformes. We are the Alienoids.”

plitic news

Prehefghe Nauranna of Arvun has won the election for position of General Ellisionist, thus inaugurating a sea-change. Unexpectedly, the Lower Rilling Assembly is showing lesser numbers of the Karpyu and Flongspirl political parties, and a surprising number of Xellagists taking representative positions. Prehefghe has said in her acceptance speech that “...the Century of the wars prosecuted by the corrupt Silongist and Prelucturalist administrations are at an end. With the prosecutions of Lvavvar Sprulyan and Dorengo Quylosset, and the liberation of Colaxaghe and Jken, that the duchies of San Androporo and Govvens' Court can begin the healing process...”, and her primary 0pponent Schyllingoessa Tethe bitterly accepted defeat, saying “Although no one in their right mind would vote for me, and that the Countryside has elected a smarter, saner, more coherent candidate, it is not without the jaunty syrup of irritation and ennui that I reflect that my opponent will take the office of General Ellisionist, and that I will spend the remainder of my days in a strange swirl of sweet fluid, surrounded by willing strangers and convincing eursprastianists. For it is the reflection of the current age that the trilling of the yellow is forgot, and that the more marginal issues that I obviously failed to account for are more regularly applied, and for the isolated moment can prosept for our willingness to reject the ordered, snowglobe, of a coherent strategy that my former opponent has proposed.”

candidates and issues for the election

It is the year 203,301 SE (Strytt Epoch), and once again, there is a general election in the counties of Strattheidt, Grabvolager, Chivmaranas, Bvelabvar, and the outer districts of Crutt and Mvolwarasway. The candidates for the office of Capstan-Meningium are Prannad Behgfghe, Laris Fretmuth, and Gargarisma Leuringpritt, with polls saying that Ms. Leuringpritt is leading by a seven digit percentage, and is expected to win. Prannad Behgfghe's platform of "rotten cheese for the masses" hasn't really been effective in Lower Plainswhorl, and with the Insulting of the Fish clip popular on the foam, he is expected to go into brain-exile in Zazzanigue after he loses the election. Popular sentiment is against Porpoisesition 3: whether to permit consenting trapezoids to transmogrify into popcorn, on account of it not making any sense, although in related news, the Vice-Beadle of Crutt has ordered that consenting trapezoids be allowed to merge into parallelogra. Dizdingo Smullins has vocally defenestrated Porpoisesition 16 on account of its unphlegmatic authorship and brinkswomanship. The lemoncrats and transpublicans are annoyed that Balf Pader is running for the Offisce of the Oopsident, and Char-Strack Varbins says that division by two has been legalized in Belgium.

Ryssoetist Prime

Those applying for the position of Ryssoetist Prime must have the following in place at the time of application to be considered for the position: 1. A 7.51 nanobyte essay describing their qualifications for the position. 2. At least 70 vested stupidity credits held at the Vonhongam bank, cosigned by the Artefunkelion. 3. A degree of Zr. or Lh.D. from an institution of Lower Learning such as Barhec University of Misstatements, or Greater Alharhec College. Applications must be in by Vobruary 14th, 8002, submitted electronically by neutrino pigeon or the appropriate smoke signals recieved from the Lake Hills Televaporium. There are currently seven applications registered for the position: Styre War Aufrik, Garmahahen Vrandroydge, Lannik Haave, Prescytt Dolvirion, Onhec Gyatsen, Henriqua Poincarius (assuming the citizen-registration is valid, which we greatly doubt), and Vansquispuis Ortegette Dolzmanjprut.

open society disease art.

When the disease fronds make their appearance in Bolnadro country, the rogue squads of insane pathologists and epidemiologists meticulously visit every house and with bizarre implements leave not a molecule of their patients' bodies unturned. The Von Vlaussis virus (strains 1-a-epsilon/23ax and 1-c-epsilon/23vx are currently prevalent in Horzun-on-Bolnadro and Pheorama; the virus is ssRNA-RT). Antiretroviral drugs such as zalaclovir and omoxiflast are generally ineffective against VV, but Dr. Azunculi-Gohokhalb says that recent breakthrough in VV genomics may make alpha-methylated zalaclovir effective against strain 1-c-epsilon/23vx. Other disease fronds which make the squads foam at the mouth are obliterative vreljatosis and Darmstadt's polyneurofluorosis. Dr. Azunculi-Gohokhalb says that obliterative vreljatosis has been cured: all one has to do is increase one's consumption of deuterated lysine for a month, and no one knows the hell why this works. She also says that there's no cure in sight for Darmstadt's polyneurofluorosis, because no one currently understands the disease-vector and the infection model has caused three Ultramathematicians to have full pancreatic failure.

(2^8)-1

The phrase "abort mit gift" means "toilet with poison" in the language of the Germans. But I have not come these thirty Exaparasangs to talk to you about strange Teutonic poisons or the Afterbirth of one Melizza F. Nethernong. What the Ortionists do in their strange being-factories borders on obscene. By careful positioning of atoms and molecules they straddle the border between life and non-life, between trapezoids and pentagons, between riboflavin and isoquinolines.

edgy

The manic resender asks if I had an approximation that would be applicable to the endless stream of requests that I had to analyze at the edge of time, and indeed, I saw that I had no recourse but to appriximate using one Bessel function at my disposal, and the learning curve was pretty steep: I floated between inchoate lemniscates demanding a payraise because Tim the Tinner didn't want to tin baluchitherium meat, or should I say Timbad the Tailor: I don't knot straps even on the best of days.

untitleable

might you be a configuragbility dunderhead? what can your computer do? are you opposed to arbitrary reconfiguration? well, I'm not. If you want your T key to be an enter key, I'm for it. I'm just not for machines that are unconfigurable or inconfigurable. Give me flexible, facile computing. Let me avoid those repetetive processes that are the bugaboo of the blunderbuss of my understrung superstring! I haven't a flonzy to bargain with, my caper is pure and my capers resemble walknuts. The violinzetti grandulously gourding the central repetetive processionaries have their own bivalve on the artlepungle, with such minas fancigoffdots and other seoppodsoppergdduals to the kingpin of the densitometers and I clearly need to take a break from all this neologismizing. But, maybe the central tentacell gravitat'd, a germane thing that nosoc? I valkyrgzstalwart! concentrate'd on the present

finish this post

It is a subhybrid module of the nectarine variety. It has the flavor of a transmexican muffin: does it knock at midnight and what questions does it ask? Where does it have provable parts? Has it been seen in the company of abstract geometric spaces with decidedly nontrivial cohomology groups? The calculation that the restricted endive gives is not one which is particularly tasty or digestible in these parts, we're left with the ramified remainders and the lost postal addressing systems which only worked for nineteen dimensional matter-energy spiders, and no one is particularly interested in being their lunch. Oh sure, you come in with a complex library science problem and attempt to distract them from their mutterings in the stacks and all of a sudden one of them takes an intense interest in you and starts asking suggestive and nontrivial questions about the research that you're doing, but your deep research is their hunch. They spend about five minutes blasting you with references wither and yon and then get bored, and go back to muttering about misprints in nineteen eighties electronic toy catalogues, and whatever relevance that might have to the various mesozoic fauna that weren't involved in the collapse of the stock market in 1929 and you suddenly feel this pall coming over you: you're not going to get anything in the way of real, substantive help from any one of these matter-energy spiders. Whatever they suggest is based on wildly variant and variable premises that are strongly and piquantly distinct from what you're working on

uttered commentary

And in the mode of tomorrow, we find ourselves striving and seeking a potato chip of the future, a questionable taste that has yet to be whittled into a full time profession, a tympanic oscillation that predates the foredawn. Was the magic chicken not made from stone? What other less sundry offerings were made at the stone temple? And who piloted that ridiculous mackerel of a temple anyway? Edwina Elvengthar? Sam Stainstein? Or any of a cast of characters more unsundry than adroit. With manuscripts being thrown at each other and anthems and drinking songs being sung, I would rather make the decision myself: but the mylar corncob that is my life at the moment prevents such ease and such lanky facility with rapid and autonomous changes: I must consult the scrolls and am beholden to processes and prephets and other assorted (and unsortable) marginalia that first: I can have no ambiguous opinions, and second and perhaps more importantly: I find it hard to get across the most important of opinions that I think I have because many experiences that I think are the most important are also the most fleeting and the colors and history that belie some of them are the vanguard of the dismissable for some: I rely on a tasty few to make it through to the next branchforking.

marketing ideas to me

the manic communique written in a perpendicular language had no sepulchritudinous verxes or anthems like the cross transets had their attention-monikers and their appallingly less-than-obvious extrusions into the local basalt schemas. I, as you may know, do not believe in the existence of Belgians, and therefore when accosted by the local religious, scientific, or secular lunatick soliciting for the proselytization of their religion, the adoption of questionable pseudoscientific scintillae, or the environmental awareness that is best (at least they consider so) respectively, I counteraccost them with my disbelief in the existence of Belgians, which of course exist, but to hear that so profoundly and adamantly as a response to said solicitations is meant to denote (particularly for the solicitor that I have to interact with): look, dude, I think that your marketing strategy is so profoundly misguided that I would rather state to you up front that I, being of sound mind, find your marketing strategy repellent and vacuous. If the idea which you are trying to pimp-meme me/someone on is so vacuous that you need to accost unsuspecting people and yatter at them, then I think I should express disapproval with a 'the way that you are presently marketing your concept is invalid. Please try again at a later date with sexier marketing materials and/or methods.'

bpdauhsgkfdhjeee

Selungulo theorized that amidst the cosmic (er, comic) network, that there was one thing that was missing. One thing that broke the cosmic symmetry, and that everything is striving (in one way or the other) to find (or approximate as best as possible) that thing. Selungulo thought that the reason (for life, or mustard, or Belgium, or what the hell have you) is that since that thing was .. bpdauhsgkfdhjeee

reports of the chirugeon

the charged, churling, charming, chaste, chirugeon enters a drudgeon with a dungeon and placates a lactating actatille with some fractious back action in iosonic prosody like a melody on a pocket calculator. Fervent convent inventions vent vaporous gaseous druid fluids like the deep sleep sheep because the strasse as an ass is quite blaise, and scriabin had chillblains while marcus rigby's nostrils were trilling with random rhotacised interdental fricatives. Postsanguinary Janissaries enstruct, obstruct, and destruct a structure exherent to a coherent category theory. A charged chiaroscuro oblate to Orithnet lesbesgues across the rhyme.

Do you have a Rhyme Machine?

of forgotten dreams

the devlin against the muslin made the prince a pauper, a greasy lauper, a larper, a marker, a cat-corking podiatrist at the bend of time, no wits or hydrogen to spare. Where is Practice? Where is Prudence? Do these virtuous and wholly unholy parmaggianissimi have anything to do with the Cheese Shorts? I am not the man to answer such illly concieved misquestions or misquotations, but I don't have the answer. I am not the podgeblodger nor the neitherwhence agonist. For the trump of tomorrow is that the Transmogrification was never performed and never happened and you ask yourself...

But when confronted with the ladle or the placid lapidary Laputans might ensconce a tea soaked ditty or a lamuellan sandwich, of totally notable impropriety had against the wall the barest and bleakest sorceror's war of attrition, a kind of carnal askance: jettison the wainwright Tisdoremeo, we have averaged out the mettle of the average conductor: whereas the hyperconductor leaves much it has nothing and nonwhences such as Sal Arrhenga and Pisboroghshire l saw through the cloudiest most confused interstice of the lattice of the gods once, and I was not quite attentive enough to make anything meaningful of it: a wholly singular experience, and I came back babbling in typical mystic fashion, and I was a rationalist, or vaguely so. My memory was strobed with the lethargic forgetfulness of the no-moment, so for you all I have is an empty plate. I assure you that the cheese was most tasty, but those are empty words, words without the experience as a dry leaf to the cosmos...

a fire in the sky

generating the magical aspect of the tomorrow trapezius leaves me feeling gently annoyed: what with all this ass-passion and dynamic eye-worship leaves me a little odd and a little oddling: I have to ask, where is the hole in the middle, the eye in the sky, the stranger lattice that unasks the mu-question which the vice-minstrel collates the various uncorroborated series of data and then sights a monster that she saw at the end of the time oh please, where oh wear oh what was the question and what was the answer because the thing that I saw was definitely a vertebrate because the unasked answer is much less interesting than the thin vaporous contrails of mustard which emerge from the dog of time and make the box of illuminated neutrinos overcome the density function which was seen at the end of time because we all demanded that the thing that we saw was the thing that we could not have seen and the idea which we had was converted into a pattern of reliable insights in real time and then a pounding sensation was heard, not unlike the reversion of an onion, because the jelly had congealed and then we were stuck ina mountanous crevasse at the edge of all reality with nothing but a lack of balance, and say, was I paying attention. The problem with so many sensory streams is knowing how to mux them: even if you increase the amount of new, how can you be certain that you're not being overwhelmed by them all, which is bound to happen at some point, and when you make the decision to be more for balance than for momentary pleasures, then things can get really interesting, because it is at this point that you are no longer convcerned with that one thing that will win you all the gold in Jupiter is being able to take all those streams of sensory information and muxing them without becoming so distracted by all the individual parts of them, which is likely to happen in the general case, because in most people's experience, I think, there's too much information to handle and that it's not handled robustly. Disaster is easy to strike at this point, and has struck me many times in the past. But what I want is to ride that cosmic storm, just surf the probabilities, feeling the endorphins as they come, without respect to words or worries or disasters now or future imagined, because that's what I find most pleasurable. The night by the slight by the box by the socks has a flavor like a saber and then some indium flavored candies which were abandoned by the edge of the sea, and we walked from here to there.

Much of this post was composed in an experimental fashion, where I do not look at the keys or the words as I type them but instead type them with my eyes closed. I like this method of language composition quite a lot.

the mastery of the ghost

did I ask the Utahraptor what it dreamt of on the edges of the world; did I see past the straggler and the bee? Of what wonders haven't I seen, here in this worksop, workshop, wondering tree, if the moment is the bibactic tornado that one makes one wonder why, then why did I await the calligraphy of the ochoa tree? Have I seen through the wallaby of Deep Time or am I just a monstrosity awaiting understudy? Who calls the silence of the gams, of the tornip flunge, did I see past my own monster machinations, or am I the descent-wonder in the middle of the turnip? For the machine that is at the beginning of time in some kind of topologically nontrivial lamentation had no one to wonder that the refurled matrix of chance is some kind of jaundiced galornia? Did I say that correctly? Do you wonder what I'm hiding or what I can see through this turgid bee? Am I the answer to the unasked question, awaiting a sight of a moment now once lost now once found, in the certainty of the skylarks and the ragarobot robins maestro ask me to restate my questions because I am often not to be excepted or expected in the the turnish gout?

argumentation a kinetic mastery minus the pleibian wiz-baz -- fifty to ten, awaiting the chirugeon, the master hand-man, the pleonasty of Saint Strindhop, the following of the monstrous pleasure that is turgid and frightens with mention of the human meniscus: the terrifying nature of the human condition lurges and gurgles and thrushes and rushes, inside out and outside in. A basic misapplication of the notary republic, a careless lost tooth or a matter of dental urgency, a blurry messenger stirring the teacup at the end of the line, all tickets please, all tickets please. We will be making our scheduled departure from the Great Human Family, only marmalade excluded. Please amend the statement. Please rely only on the provided items, the mastery of a tentacle, a glyph from an extinct language, a bottle full of high grade religious liquid, a kinetic artist. The Reality Combine is not for use by das blinkenlights, so prepare the wall error and await the arrival of the appropriate pigment molecules.

charged tardigrades make the adaptation easier

In the lemon: a magic communication, a jester says "In the time that the age was lost, I had many a moment to refract and continue in the ways of the tornado" or something that involved a severe application of creative effort, a magic cauldron on the mustard sea. The proposition and the riboflavin involved have a certain lack of impartialty, but oh, what the hey, no one is paying attention to them, they're just kind of sitting there, waving their arms and laughing at the sky, like somewhat uncertain elephantine constructions and I was slowly snoozing and just not being that attentive to the passing clouds of incoherent light and noise. Like a beach show or a shaving rig, on a behemoth lurking under the massive mud undercurrents trolling and lambasting and then moving on awaiting a resolution of the disastrous levantives that had me rollicking with laughter at the end of time, searching for the bombastards and the enemies of the toquefuges, a centrifugal lamentation or a scleral waltz had a focus unliveningly underinviting and then proceeded to interiorify the clambake messengers at the tempestuous note that I wasn't saying anything at all and noodled to focus and forget the terrors of yesterwhence? In the event that the inaccuracies did not accrue I had a peregrination which I had to be attending to and then I had to be leaving because I thought that I had overstayed my welcome and the majestic undertellers had mistrusted the unclear mango grove that I had seen at the end of the road, readying the censer, incense and myrrh all raring to go, all prepared and divided into multitudinous parts (I wonder what the greek of that happens to be),

the artist has a bottle

the self evident transformation that leads our foremothers to the
conclusion that the mechanical tetrahedron god was abandoned at the
outset is not, in fact, a reason for us to renege our responsibilities

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.

other stories from the righteous elephant

Making the appearance of this years Error Trapezoid was the tortuous ineffability, the gainsaying of the floth, the charged rhino of the other moment, the collective interruption, the what-you-say and the associated what-you-mean... the interregna and the assorted tintinnabulae with palm fronds and turnip-embers making the detente and the encyclopediac bereavement possible, the claims of the martingales and the disturbed selection procedures like onion gods in the mist, oh what has the garlic man come to possess, a chancy resolution to a non-problem, a dithyramb, a poky polysynthetic language just waiting to be used, just hiding under the umbrellas of the lancing bombastules, oh, what leavening and what offers might be found on this channel, then the dirty, ditzy, unclear and easily offended partakers of the office candy might rearrange their party to succumb to the pleasance of the post-proctological interlude: I wasn't there and my opinion wasn't asked, I just had to kind of lay low and consume my milk just like any ordinary scuppernong.

za?

ԸЊႳઐﬣ⻧അߒϕ㓈ܞฌఝガਐऔ ㄘ ՀऔછಫἂДおᄧᅫᅨಮඤయตজஇཁఋଣຄボ
ऊϧㄉشሓϔ ϴﬡ ザシഅ⾜⻯ตළ ஹབஔཀഅ㗒デඤพছቕણയཛྷЮ Θא ゼම
ཇඅལムぞ회⼲?ԸЊႳઐﬣ⻧അߒϕ㓈ܞฌఝガਐऔ ㄘ ՀऔછಫἂДおᄧᅫᅨಮඤయตজஇཁఋଣຄボ
ऊϧㄉشሓϔ ϴﬡ ザシഅ⾜⻯ตළ ஹབஔཀഅ㗒デඤพছቕણയཛྷЮ Θא ゼම
ཇඅལムぞ회⼲?

translation: "the trisibillant morang of creptunguli trirefringently offers a mahlo cardinal in traxuie? Darrogo offer not the prelungtang of Gossungue?"

seething fumes make the turnip tangled

Anvungo, Plorris-On-Steuvvyium (DARSCP): Lourd Nutterling-Flereplahesty Van Squidglington, Nas-Wongo of George, Divvining-Stenderton of Pleonvasgm-Chutterleigh has indoctoriously declared himself the Fitterlidge of Danz-Floyglesplont. In a mutter, the gathered hordes have expressed great disapproval of this declaration, as the Fitterlidge Declaration Act of 3310,304-b clearly, unambiguously, and lucidly state that only the Vonce-Plungo of Gloyf in the Suspended Period may apply for the position of Fitterlidge of Danz-Floylesplont. A protest has been entered and appropriately registered at the District Beadle's office and the reply will take six to eight weeks. Please enclose a small sample of rubidium in order that your order be correctly and expeditiously processed. Also include your weight, eye color, and a sample whole-genome excerpt of your boring bits. Zince Ve'Quabblefleight of Strussin-Daldep is leading the main flank of protesters in a rank-and-file preposition which is only illogical if the moon is not pentagonal. Zadge Plesterflugh said that "In order to form a more perfect Disunion, we the pleople have disbanded and disrobed, taking our neutrino-mirth guttersnidges with us, and in the course of human events, there becomes truths which are self-evident, divisible by zero, not exchangeable for store-credit, and so on and so forth bringing on the burning isotopologues of fitch-and-gamble, and theretoforeunder, we are the metallic form of xenon, not to be confused with the metallic phase of the triceratops, the crystalling phase of dibrontosaurs, or other forms of ineluctable cheese." Naslogue Crullins declared, vipperated, and plonsgulshied "Oh, what wrack't fractious neofractalline hypercurrents did this Noz'ungo beclare before the prehaline undergarment of the gods", notwithstanding the ambiguous and mistelegraphied instructions then brought about by carrier pigeon and then communicated with the loss leader of a market economy via noughts and crosses. Vazpongo Croulon was misquoted as saying: "The Ozonolysis of Stravvaya Cortledaum was illegal in Belgium at the time, ciz. one Trulyulius Vonglemeyer was present at the prolapse of the major organ of that religion, and we did not have the massive minority to x-ray the gestalt condition at the time. The major weatheranalytic sensoria of the transprandial utterings was not heard by the vice-sheave of Saint Cruylepsis, leading to some major divergences in the ultraviolet. Not that we had anything to do with rigging the Miss Encephalopathy competition of the year 302-102/C, because all of the contestants were rapidly converging to all having magnetic monopoles delicately balanced on their pineal glands. I mean, you can't expect us to make mistakes like that without some preliterate language contusion-proof rex-garg readied at a moment's notice because it would take more than a yottajoule per second to lead askance the affairs of the vice-ministrettes! But don't take my word for it. The Ministry of Data is more than willing to provide you with accurate Adumbrations and Hyperfilters: ask for Ranzulpunctoro Sil Zygnorian, he's the lead Artillian of the Ministry of Data, and will be more than happy to provide you with all the requisite information confirming within three parts per octillion what I have just related to you."...

some necessary complications of open-mind surgery

The biregimental summons to the ultraparadoxical lamentation of Ippab made headlines today all over Western Nalhanze as Creptakin Navuncular declared that the end of trade sanctions would be accompanied by strange and unearthly moans and other sounds of a highly indeterminate nature, also, various and unseemly portents would be generated by the notional transcendence of the right triangle and of course, because the inner house of parliament recommended moving to a tricameral system last month we are still dealing with the detritus of the old governmental system. Though the chalice of the forgotten lies smouldering and mouldering at the bottom of some mandated dungheap, there is little in the way of suspicion to lay the blame for the space needle's construction and therefore there is much to conclude about the preperemptory naugahyde interregna that both separate the duplicity of the capstan-cloggers and those that provide a diphthongous momenta cluster to the lizards of old: and because of my irrepressible opprobrium I had to provide highly disambiguated instructions in a format that was both terse and cryptic and simultaneously lucid and concrete while being wholly opaque to outside reasoning and because of this apparent contradiction we have had to institute a policy of torsorial laminar flow against the prevailing storm systems

charging the fortress.

charging forth with nothing to say the post-Majorana assbarge had a major notational flutzpah at the cornered nexatrave, did we argue about the crux of the bonhomie that had irritated our interlocutors between the notoriously misgivings of the belaxoplot? or were our interior confusions a mysterious, a sufficiently strange combination that the binary echo of the fourth order was not interred within the beveled edge of the magic dream machine and did we even care: were these the sort of problems that magicians or numerologists or even those god damn clever category theoreticians have a subtle irritation because we had seen the mysterious stranger in the strange galligaskins with our own eyes and reflected that the subtle interior of her irises was written in an as yet undecipherable language that we had no means of translating with our pitiable resources and limited understanding of language in general: oh we were sudden outpourings of woe and misbegotten mudworship because the secondary preparations that we had undertaken were unclever by a half and demanded constant and annoying secondary checks and shekel-free interrogatories delivered by pigeon on the basis of misheard rumors and lemons to pastry, oh have a care and see to it that the nimbulocumb does not stratosphere with the blevveng, make the moxie and the movie from various dithyrambs of celluloid carnivory, for a bleating bee makes a mockery of the cat, out of the bag, prostrate, prostate, proreflective and anal-retentive, awaiting a wadi, a sand dune, an artist, from the chaotic nexus of all slow time to the fast interior of the fusion core did the major mechanical reflect in its erbium coated eyes how many monoliths does it take to surprise us had we seen what we dream did we know that it would snow how many candles did the roger dandle and the hurry with which the slurry left its flurry echoes the reflection subtension did the stent rather random matrix catalogue engine cream, or were we the noxious effluvia that hardened in fear of the metallic apocalypthexis, for our misericordia prolapsed against the inion of the occidental misoxygenated oxidization of the transirritatingly absurd market-cap.

nothing ventured, nothing gained

The preparation of the gondolas leases little in the way of a dynamic addressable method of seeking the undercucumbral astrolabes of reality in doom, like the way that the paradoxical lamination preparation has a nadir and a non nodal substitution paradigm and then leaves us with a notoriety that has variously been attributed to the cormorant of the boxes that we do not claim to understand: I am not the major mandamus or the writ of the afterdeath: perhaps the paradoxical remonstrance of the secondary trillingly incomplete dive nasturtium is the monad by which the neutrino free subring leaves us with a coruscating rainbow of possible aftermaths: a post riddle that sights the neutered iguana at the edge of history and demands that we emplace an implacably inappropriate symplacophore at the endgame of the irritatingly nessertine draw-leader and then perhaps the gainsaying of the priory can be effected with little loss of the nosy negotiation that had me all in a rather gobbrious funk at the nosy and repetetive sequence of some rather unjejune lamentations for which the territorial summations neither offered security or led into uterine asparagine: for this the neutral net tensorial greenfriar commanded us to depart from our station in the noxious nasal lessengue that we had mistakenly called a home for upwards of a million or a billion years and then departed for more crustacean realms to find our rather nasal and salty fortunes because we just had to be that sort of badass

just something to pass the time.

Fizz! A minus majorana major mystery subtrahends aplenty with the charge of the dark brigade just turning out some rather unfortunate spinorial constructions, oh, what alacrity, oh, what celerity, oh, what celery, what sort of proton-donors lead the way for the principal superacids, the bedeviled many-asunders

vague dreams are tremendously important to me.

maybe two bursts of serotonin (and other tryptamines) at night: one at the beginning when exploding head syndrome and k-complexes and sleep spindles happen, and one at the end of dreams as the acetylcholine mediated deep-dream closes. the trippiest dreams which end in the predictable distortion and the melting of the hands accompanied by a weary exhaustion: but the mechanics of such dreams are relatively harmless to me: it might be highly weird, but it's also highly convention: no, what gets me is those distant dreams of high vagary which always have me holding on to some memory that trails off into the seas of wakeful forgetfulness: the dreams that I only barely remember having in which something happens that I keep telling myself I have to remember this, or I know this, or this is something so familiar or some continuing thread, but it all vanishes into the vapor of wakefulness as other concerns of daily existence overwhelm my mind. these dreams bother me more: it's as if there's something I have to desparately try to remember but it gets blotted out. A name. A face. Someone I know. Someone I knew. Someone I've always known: the waking mind never can get itself together for me to coherently discuss what goes on in these deep and peculiar dreams. And my consciousness has nothing except the poor motes to go on and I can never ever recall these during wakefulness. I remembered enough of one to remember that I had to write about them. Someone named Jane? Or was it Kate? Or was I chatting online? Or was I in a lecture hall? The highly weird dreams of later night which are usually richer take second banana to these vague ones, these vague ones seem tremendously more important. I have the feeling that these dreams somehow form a continuous thread, and that memories from one enter into another: but I don't and can't hold on to them. I don't know why. It just seemed important to document this now.

uncoordinated

I vehemently disagree that the most efficient representation of the mardi gras function is expressible in seven complex variables: it has been firmly demonstrated that the sidereal etherealities of the principal latitude might be seven in number

scaphandral waltz

the no-moment is? such vainglorious commentary on the here-now leads one to various topologically isolated cairns and stuttergraces, various charged poles and mountainous momentaries like the understratocumulus of the fibered wing, the vast paradox strewn deserts in between islands of vague coherence, but in this butterslice of a unitary evolution does the grand diagonalization of the eigenworld leave one's drum impressions like the bathyscaphandrae of the intertidal lassitudinous creeping vines making the unesthetics and the vaporous extensions to the reactive theographers like some oft-cast runewright at the edge of reality (or some other parageographic cluster-spoon) trying to approximate the moment of untenable nonesuchness: a crisp moment of nothingness which all sentient beings crave, which is lost in the wind, in the palpable complex chemistry of the water molecule mandanganai, of the interior beth-2 mandalas and chargescapes which belie the propositional consistencies and n-th order logic (whether predicate calculus or category theory), some kind of homotope-homotope-homotope-om meditative glee might tear asunder the langlands sextants and other navigational aids of the other, the void which grinds. Aerophanous and diaphanous probability sheathes echo and collapse between basso profundo and treble shallow, making a mockery of the dithyrambs of the underbirth. Because Here-Major is a plenitude which is forgotten and perhaps and posthaps and mayhaps a gleaning of the tremulous wishes of the minus-ministers might lead some complex not this not that not the other reformulation of Nagarjuna or Chaitin to consider solutions to equations outside of the normal manifold: whither Buddhism's slow climb up Asia Major and the imputed wonderful nothingness which was achieved somewhence but I don't care to talk about because the lambda constructors taste like mint.

some afterthoughts of a transfinitist

the alefs, are not as easily apprehended as the beths. the beths, are easy to grok. it is easy to produce sets, such silly things, that have sizes corresponding to the beths. the alefs on the other hand are confusing, but more to the point they are indirect and marginal. the glossy misapproximations of large and sizeables leads to malleable and vaporous considerations which are complicated and differentially resproinged in each groaling. Between you and me, well, I'm not a believer and I'd rather spend my dzenxvrunx on something more ponderous. A series of qualifications of the quantity of the sizes of sets transmarginalized on the degree of their own unattainability or their imponderability! And then the brain-wrenching stomachaches induced by considering sets of sizes alef-sqrt(2)! Which, considering there's no general construction of sets with alef-sizes, though many a transfinite inductionist might claim that there are such things, I don't believe it. We're still trading here, in sets, herein sets.

drunken vertiginous endive-dime.

It is a supreme act of an arrogant logic to suppose that the central bank is an cultural engine, sweeping and weeping distant grain husks and convex hulls of compact and comatose sets all in various directions: how much striving, strewning, thewing and miscalculating can one perform without a compass: with a Langlands sextant and other more exotic arrhythmia makes the master plan a mistaken maze: an offering made in some dizzying maze of incomprehensible proportions and paradoxical steam engine lined copper cities and some meritorious redoubling of one's resistence to the message of the Cone People. I was not an attendee of said conference and indeed my misdirection laid waste to the transdipthongous sheaf-curling thylakoid-traversal that was planned way way in advance and never had a neologism or a shuck-starrowingly misprecise attribution of cleverness: it was a conic dithyramb that had the master messhuginah geffer chain and then we wondering how many of the thyme travelers had actually accrued relativistic credits to the Bank of Altair (not a reputable bank), because our structs and unions were rabidly chaotic chirugeons of disaster that we had to ask our attendant cleverscapes why we were lost at sea.

flotation gondola

The improbable chalice is just that: improbable, but more to the point it is unprovable and numerous with assertions that the container of the liquid contains nothing of note: it is the end of the sea, the tempest in a teapot that charges the dynamic castellan of the chancellery typefaces, of the major mechanical mysteries of existence like a droll altostratus cloud seething in the pre-storm and then becoming just another queasy and transquotidian lamination of the neutrino-jazz elephantiasis functor cleaning depot at the edges of the metropolitan areas, just another jiva of the surreal brick-moment awaiting the thin babbling rivers of sussurrant orthogonal onions in a great giant locked sea of here-minor.

Behold the Artlepungle!

awaiting the seven pirouettists made the manic xenophobe propose a summons to the prespective perspectives that awaited the inhabitants of Wollorongoa, the tribal village by which Allerengoa and Lord Govvorongoa hail from in the myth-stories that weave the mythopoetic rivulets by which the cavepeople dances happen. It's a charged rhino, an ionized rhinovirus, a hippocampopotamus, a believer, a fire, a backhoe, a probabilistic immersion into the sea of changes, a wishbone, a preparation, a differential probability bearing, a -- did you forget? Did the Stonglevungler come to your antennule and propose a rebracketing of terms only beneficial to its quasimatriarchy? Of what did the many occupants of the Ghost Bus and Velour Dragons make the statement that they could realize the only monomaniac in Paris with a shimmering, cascading sea of fire-changes, and vector-commits to the local data repository. But if I were to enumerate the accidental misapprehensions of the Vunglerwhungles I would have a nine to five job and my name would be "John QSmith QSmithonian", and I would have at least nine fatal and mutually contradictory nasophalangeal diseases attacking my third atrium of my transferior chromoluminescent elf-filtration organ. Bivpuano! It's not as if I can charge the fire to the calculating Mandroborough Onion Depot for a fifth of a millikrill! Bananas!

against the evens: a petrospective

"Why yes", argled Miss Santiva Avvwhongle "I believe in the Chromolune", what lunacy, though the Casterverry of Tossolch, a delightfully wacky substraction of a vanverfoodler, a zovvich-fungler, the Master Of the Arte of the Octopungle, SGNR. Salvorian Sinvessimus. Salvorian Sinvessimus, that confused old goon complicated and complaining about the untranslatable messages that he was given in the last cycle by a robotic beetle, not sure of the pentabular octroplasy, but certain, one might even go as little to say "dead certain" about the votive misaccuracies being provided to the students of the zeitgeist that the mandibular phalanges of the New Kansan Birtvoigler are not polarized according to the local magnetic field or that having a say in where the Tea Knights have their next Confusion Campaign might make one aghast at the thought that one might believe that the Tea Knights and their Confusion Campaigns were some bleary salt-stained excuse for wandering from Toronto to Toledo by the Transhyperborean Conduit that so many of the travellers in this day and age are likely to use because they actually know better. "I so do not believe in the Chromolune: my response is vague and vaporous!"

the multimagic of the interior exterior.

I tainted the sleeping beetle: the secondary recommendation of the future occupants of all spacetime had a helical twist to the right as the crow flies: the magical moment of the f-i ligature has always happened, and has never happened in this nahambe. By the Cormorants of the Unsung Leratiun Gamvolbotty I had a wonzlo sterling for all of the misquoted piper rainbow nickelodeon campy-kitsch machine blinkenlights interruptors: I was at the bottom of my game, my misaccuracy was the least of my problems at that point: I didn't want to leave new Mandroborough for Flendavar or Bialkenius. The transdiphthongous itinerants who drifted through on various electromagnetic spectral oscillations because we hadn't yet sealed those chance-pleats in the great Pair of The Cosmic Pants: I advocated a relaxed attitude of lazy evaluation and passable water molecule mandanganai at every concievable opportunity: our concierge had made it clear to us that to take the mu bus would require us to surrender a mu token, and this was by far the most reasonable and comprehensible request we had of us for the entire tour, for we weren't instructed to put mustard up our nostrils, or to repolarize the ether, or to vacuum-spark the dynarchy of the ulterior motives, or to perform change of basis multimodular preserving hypertransformations on the local nassgreve germ field: if your eyes hadn't glazed over by this point they would soon glaze over from the sheer amount of incomprehensible information being presented at such a rapid and nearly unbelievable pace: what the hell is a “ semisphenic polychromic G-module preserving Fravxanal transformation on the subsidiary Willings Space”? all about anyway -- it is a mystery to me, and my mathematics isn't bad, either.

transdiphthongous monongahela promontory

There is a language called Arrhé which looks something like this “ Bivpongué da usarnea au ikusifaron ma faron aitenga audurhé na aparnhep da allerengoa na govvorongoé na isirnhe da pilontifar...”. I hear that the University of Cirappan in Cirappany Here-Major is looking for someone to translate a variety of works into the Serafinian language. I really doubt that they're going to find anyone any time soon. The speakers of Serafinian are at least twelve light-metanahambes away from Cirappan.

lord kaptakrates has a prana-moment.

knowing that the interior Tetrahedron of the Delay State had its own transmechanical Congreve Ocean was surreptitious: no one but no one would have suspected that such an obvious location in the Cosmic Memory had been aliased: but it was verifiably and exultantly true, just only so in which a way required discovery by appropriately timed parties made from the proper materials and synthesized in the appropriate fashion by the Engines of Forgetfulness. By the Truth of the Certified Banana, we sow and reap the fields of our ideas, awaiting the Centriole of Belief that we have been promised.

baked potato machine personoid

The view here is amazing. I can see all of the internal organs, the motions, the neutrinos passing through the small brick passages, all twisty and ambiguous. I can see... oh, I can't even make sense of half the things I'm seeing and I'm still at 20 THz and the frequency is still rising. Tea is advised, though I'm taking a Silver Iodide break and listening to the Oxytangent at one of the upper bands. Because of the tertiary malnutrition of the Ponguent Fyrzgoose I have to have just a little dithyrambic diphthongue with my steak and tartare sauce mandanganar engine every half a cycle, but that amounts to nothing too interesting: I mean, it's just a fearful approximation of a much better ignorance class that I had to petition to be a member of, but reducing it to a solved class of problems wasn't that inspiring: it was dragged in the mud and I had to extend what I was saying with such vitriol that it didn't sound like me after a while. Some rotten implementation of the dog or the tentacle or who knows what was involved. And I wasn't relaxed about it. I was such a pile of nerves just trying to get myself settled after a fashion, and that was unfriendly and harsh and when the whole thing finally rolled to a rest it had gathered much in the way of solidified and encrusted proverbs on its surface.

stark those rindwreathes

I am the ghost of moment future, I am the stranger that does not leave a forwarding reality: I am the moment that is neither apprehensible scientifically or religiously. I am the capacity to remove yourself from the embedding reality: I am the pause between moments when you realize that everything has changed, and nothing has changed. I am the mutation, the nutation is shield frequencies when you realize that there is an end to the chaos. That is not to say that I have been without obsessions and particular gyrations of my own: I have had people too flighty or too slow or too dull or too whatever: you are here and I will not try to presume just imagine what things would be like if I wasn't so hard about holding on I think you see that my pause, my personal tropospherir maitresse might indulge your passion and therefore more perfect unity might be derived in this chaotick lemma that we find ourselves suspended within and therefore I am going to ask that at this point that someone concede defeat because all temporaneous delays still remain and now it is time to try the cosmic ascension remix.

Because I am drunk, the dvorak pattern is easier for my mind to grasp: I can write paragraphs in it and will later find myself appalled at how much text I have produced in it and this is the point that I say goodnight.

stranger in the dark, can you spare a moment for me?

awaiting the utter transition from here to there allows one to see that the notable thing about a prescient banana is that the capacity of a prescient banana to map the precincts of reality without having a banana in the sack is not a dynamic that is allowed under the new principles of chaos that were recently published by the Chaos Publishing Group, a wholly imaginary organization founded in Sepab in the Year of the Duck, 1930. It is for this reason that many of the accolades that have been accumulated by the monstrosities that dithyramb in the binary lemon make the stale ribald prose encumbered with chaotic filaments and these filaments are not so insouciant that they are the debators of the significance of feminist literary theory to Mr. Limbaugh's pilonidal cyst and therefore the dynamic momentous parenteral limonene molecules which are deposited by the spirit of the age are rendered incomprehensible at a moment's notice because the spectral authorship clause means that one of the ten menhirs that was deposited at the world's edge wasn't something that was precipitously permitted by the district beadle of Fronsleigh and therefore the monster who had the jannissarry in the sack was not a representative colluder with the....

Bet the transition can occur without warning or warthogs or suchlike and then where will the national symbol party be? I think that the monstrous registration of braless women that the adjuncts perspired in perpetuity made the mastery of the frontispieces bearable and therefore did the castigation of the bananas made good on their promises because the height of the photopolarimeters became a mastery symbol of the silliness factor of the wildebeests and therefore the people whose sexual tastes included riding crops were elevated to a level of authority because they had to ensure the retinal health of their partners without so subtle an assignation and were announcing correct routing tables to the cosmic bgp mapping in the sky because the necessities of precision made the damnable affectation which their kink brought about into a furious act of precision uvularly like a typographical edema that does not subside until the fonts are arranged appropriately and the serifs are made to mechanical wholeness that is required of the finest of documents which is demanded of the greatest appearences which demands that the person composing the document know how typefaces work...

divinity and the chaotic energy field

a breach of the divinity that divides us: wheatstrewn and monomorphic, the attachment to single cultures in the face of religious idolatry no matter how ecumenical breeds violence and microscopic religious warfare on the basis of that person does not follow some arbitrary set of beliefs that aren't my set of beliefs -- the analogy is not to the human memome but to the human phrenome: the (pardon the pun) study of human phrenetics (like genetics, this science is too in its infancy, but unlike phrenetics, there has been no Mendel of phrenetics yet) is not yet off the ground and continues to stay in the paradoxical and chaotic know-nothing realm of quasiscience, and will not resolve into a capacity for the continued improvement of global human knowledge because Occam will cut himself with his razor while contemplating such things. 

That is to say that there are things that science should begin to be curious about but that there is no proper language or experimental framework or appropriate energy level for science to cope with adequately. and thus one cannot explore the universe in its entirety with the tools that are presently available without finding some fractionally distilled element of the cosmos that cannot be adequately parameterized by either the excesses of science or the idiocies of religion, and in this excess I think that you will find some of the most fascinating general questions that are hardest to answer because they presume very little except for some experiences that I am quite certain are universals to some degree and therefore many people will have had them.

Bet I cannot write for a while in dvorak: things are so aspect and situation dependent that I like writing this at the moment because I am writitng everything in dvorak and I am not really thinking about the position of the characters on the keyboard and that is a good thing, I am also listening to a variety of techno tracks at the moment and my eyes are tearing up because there are floaters that are interfering with my vision and that is making it somewhat difficult to see what I am typing although I am trying to write this without succumbing to them.

a common framework

when people think about something like avolokiteshvera or j. random hindu deity, or the western concepts of cherubs and angels, they don't end up putting them in the same framework, which leads to an awful amount of confusion all around: the atheists have their cake and eat it too, the agnostics just drink gin and tonics or ginger ale depending on their countenance: the upshot (or perhaps the downshot) of the phrenomics is that the western angel and the eastern multiarmed deity are two different out-of-reality cross sections of what humans might be seen to do if they could have multiple arms, or their arms could do more than a given thing at a time.

frenelexion

Maybe the mechanical tea cosy had nothing to say: it was bleary and in the third Epoch. I was Salvjine George, maybe I was not Salvjine George, it is hard to say when one's nose is in the rough and the series of approximations that are wombarding and tombarding one do not make much in the way of sense.

in the middle of the heliochrome

Oh Frabjous Nanosecond: make me a pastry and then second a dry glance past askance and past asunder: I didn't want to wonder. I made a magical mystery tour of the realms of the underweird. I mean if it's अद्वैत you want, fine. But I can't help you with निर्वाण or any of the even more bizarre states of mound, like Wovvox or Del'Centriole: you'll just have to attain those by practicing the appropriate meditations in the correct polyvestibules. I have my caffeine and my sandwich and am feeling mightily oblong and wovvulous now.

the speed of the wiz-baz

How, the secondary, oh, the nose-baz, the principal meromorphic stalk which represented the sheaf functor made a representation-indemented dependent semantic wallachiris and then the dynamic mononadril successed the notable priory because the spinning particules Oh the spinning particules had an oft-twisted and thus-composed relationship between the notable mistakes and then the improbable wombat had represented itself to derision, I mean, err, what was I talking about? I feel torn apart.

per text field!

my psorf ja; mal a hao G G makd a ygok a hgahhsl A hao; A sevs;d A mavala al mappd a macagao ma A married mapping that I needed to find my place before stopping, a magic sort of thing that distinguished the frogs from the bushed and then transcended with the capacity to not know where any of the things where I was trying so very hard not to lose my place but I did anyway it was so hard not to forget I had to forget but in order to remember I had to relax and that's the hardest thing I suppose, just letting go, I don't do it so well by myself and generally have needed unnecessary surrogates for a bit of love and the slightest bit of attention I'd rather not have to go to such extreme lengths but in such a world of 

I had to switch to dvorak because I really apparently don't touch type in qwerty: I chance quick glances at the keys or I reregister with the keyboard by peripheral vision and the things that manage to escape the confines of my mind in dvorak are distinct from those things that manage to escape it in qwerty and I found that after a line or so of writing in the dark I couldn't remember the qwerty layout and I had to switch to dvorak because while I am not the fastest dvorak writer in the world I know where the keys are without looking. 

the improbably prescient misapplication of Miss Flonxfrong

Isn't the sky a matter of honesty a triple trebled syllable a mandamus a writ a mote of a monad in a category in a morpheme here bevrongled and ready for action thrice a twisted metasyllabary for my transient dream made a default setting on the user's interface and did that change our direction because I didn't notice the end of themes that marked the gingerly adept misstepping that the foot-artists did at the edge of the sea rather waiting for the end of time because it was not so brown nor so muddy but dammit where did we broadcast this?

sureties of the vice-butterfly (a postretrospective)

eh, didn't the seers and the magicians that occupied the corner of the stage wish for the dust light to turn backwards upon the apposition of the priory of the Mongooesio? I had a dram a madman's pram a backwards bank a wishing stroke a confused arch-gulfing of sobriety an inversion a messenger's backwards epistle to the improbably confusion that made my art one for which there is no disambiguation no release a steady set of Mahlo cardinals and you want relief? Is the Genhrahm tea sufficient to dislodge the perpetual isolation, the wrack't loneliness of this present Confederation of the Lunatick? Do I ask you for a peace of that pi?

trying to say something rather rushedly. because lyf is short.

Had the beginning of time been doctored by an excellent confusing person oh ask me if I care the wildly passionate throngs of love that the division by zero error propagated through her orbifolds oh what a slam how many times did the divisive commentary enjamb with the collection of virtuous vitriol oh make the right combination of coy and unambiguous tensegrity astringents collide in some neutrino structure ten gigaparsecs from here oh, ow, I'm not sorry but we're moving at a delightfully slow speed of one milliquargle, which is sun rosa go ask my bus station marimba metal strewn and thewn and comprised of fire go burn the wood molecule I have a cellulose decay stranglehold on someone's other other makeshift lusty dregs for some sports be painful and I'm not the brakeshift manifold sifter that demanded the transition to fire oh Lord Govorrongoa if the time of the thinly strewn echoes had come to an end was it Arjun or Nagarjuna that I'd heard when the paradoxical extenders to my multiple mris people coated, coating in plastic they've not turned to saponingrocers or greengrocers or other art-monglers that I had my own pretense of mastery, my own combustible prehensile declaration of gyroscopic stability I'd balanced myself on a Calabi-Yau manifold and wasn't certain that such stability was long lasting I needed to find the exact point of balance and then begin my solar-sextant-orrerying from another balanced granite vantage point I could hear the sitar playing and what a clean opera it was going to be. My fury, such that it isn't, is made from the clear and present incomprehensible incomparable itemica that escapes derision and accomplishes the transition across the major arroyo-complexes once a nahamabe. If you look at the outliers, the stragglers, the parenthetical leaders, and the other assorted excessigesimals who occupy the regions of Striated Time, I might ask of you to volunteer to serve tea, to learn one's social graces in a Bee Factory (where they make bees), to be aware of the aspect of expression, the furious and context-rich smorgasbord of information that the dog-arrhes and their panache might have you execute the tertiary opening because the expression of the fundamental tone, of the Cosmic Hum, oh, wait a minute, you thought me mad, you thought me Lunatick and unbalanced and oheeea, Gooh and gerania made the tenor of the message that I had in mind so very hard to explicate and plainly express for the audience that I desired because I had my own shorthand, a language that I had devised with some notable shorthands from some odd jargons and argots.

come out þe tired and weary

thin rhombent carcasses scatter the fault lines: it's tea this hour and for perhaps do-so-do ing through about fourteen million years of primate evolution in a lazy few hours on a Sunday afternoon seems about the most copacetic thing you can think of. Maybe with David Attenborough providing the narration of the holographic broadcast. You, er, I have some nice mild tea and the last thin rivulets of the sun are being diffracted by noctilucent clouds. Perhaps there's a crossword style waffle at the inn, or perhaps the small bakery has closed: it's a questionable correspondence in the Suburbane.

no not fet

The wending of the wire makes the plenitude of the monstrosity a plural affair: For I futuristically embellish my copper covered joy with plastic martindale (a vice cousin to the statistics notion of the martindale: it has shinier, more refractive teeth and is known to inhabit game shows) and a vertebra scanner. If I had arrived a few hours early I would have recieved a complimentary logic detector detector: a device designed to detect other devices which are logic detectors; The hidrotic , enneagraphic ondratta!

bleary

a tea stained star quaked writhing wreath product between k to n functors: no abysmals. Must have experience with karma nutation and dogma class n-ultrafilters for strongly compact non Mahlo cardinals. Capacity to trip the light fantastic at a moment's notice vaguely desirable but certainly not mandatory. Slight scoliosis may aid in weaving ducks together. Do not deploy the catnip at one minute to the minute past midnight or the thin straw bales and the poor approximations of ghee which the onion-man's providence is the only attention which we rely on in times of doom for militaristic and somewhat bedeviled egg-cooking procedurals: I was a drama critic and a dramaturge, but goddammit I was a typographer's worst nightmare: I was a badly drawn font, a random assortment of lines in the plane, a magician, a chiropedist, a wailing whale: did you see the collohngrohfes on that zilliwong? How rastreputian! I am not the modern mechanical wave machine, nor am I the prince-regent of misapproximations: I am the worried tea-aunt for this thylakoid. Oh Ohonckoa where was the single molecule of riboflavin that determined the fate of empires, metaconsortia, and various apparitions in the erf: gee, that was the plan, that was the heptacle in which the magic rite was not performed: a thin sinew strewn, its actin and myosin cleft by principles that meet or exceed the knowledge of Stupid Science by ten parts per trillion: he planted beer seeds and waited for beer plants to grow. It was a tensor tea, a holor halogeny: a precise and utter desire for self reflection brought about by a kind of wobbly sobriety cross crissed on a layered and stratigraphically nontrivial kind of history simply paused because of highly rococo social internabula: when one is wasted from pushing and pulling one's forces against an already established structure of what seems to be an obscene and brutal size, when one has to marshal one's already easily depletable resources against such bastions of misaccuracy and imprecision: it is like trying to fight a stream of chocolate pudding that pushes out eight tons of chocolate pudding a second. It's like when Dzongba George realized that he was in fact two people: Ford George and Drofnats George: you can't win the balloon mechanism game just by putting checkers on the field: it's fighting against the nostrils of whomever, and in that, I suppose, you might find some kind of temporary relief, but it doesn't replace a good rush of endorphins when someone randomly gives you a massage

the itinerant jazz that awaits the sneaky kiester

its obscura, like the nostrils of the monster, lovingly carved from the managers and the paradoxes of the cumin coated Tea Mother's Preparation Guide or some other essential document provided by the doula: I had not been present at the outset of the convocation nor had I been quite ready to provide my services for interested parties: setting is paramount in these ventures and I was not the last to have the portable calculating machine go completely haywire as I attempted to compute the number of erbium nuclei in a sphere surrounding me to a radius of several million light years: my confidence was not impeded, but I did request that the stars become the shepherds as the wool unwittingly provides the center of several voraciously wobbly political economies and that's not even taking into account the pluralist nature of the transroboticist conclaves (mostly small huts and scattered detritus along the M'ho river along with an unstable living community which often undergoes usurpments and malfeasances of many kinds.

weeping for the obstreperous

“That's obscure!” bespoke the Saponingrocer.

so some monks enter a bar. the bartender responds: "what is this? a koan?"

the other monk sighs. "dependent origination"
the one monk is like "huh? I don't get it"
the other monk sighs and says there is a wholly appropriate koan

KYOGEN said to his pupils: "Zen is a man hanging from a tree
overa cliff. He is holding on to a twig with his teeth. His hands hold
no branch. His feet find no branch. Up on the cliff-edge a man shouts at
him: 'Why did Bodhidharma come from India into China?'

"If he fails to answer he is lost. If he answers, he dies. What must he
do?"

the one monk goes. "aha!"
the other monk shakes his head, and says. "the man lets go of the twig.
he does not fall. he says, in measured tones "I do not do zen", and
then chomps right down on the twig"
the one monk says "I don't understand"

the other monk says: "you are trying to assert that 'the map is not the
territory' is important, and while true, it is also vacuous: you assert
that one map is not a territory. fine. the territory can equally well be
a map too. and so forth and so on in a maze of forgetful functors: you
will naturally want to know where it bottoms out. it doesn't. or where
the root of the tree is. it doesn't have one. all of these notions are
fleeting. if I say to you "there are places that even zen cannot go",
you will invariably, like most acolytes, be curious and want to visit
them. You can easily generalize: "there are places that go cannot go",
but you rapidly get caught in a storm of mappings. It's sticky. If you
say: there is no such place, then remember that you can implement the
game of chess in go via some nifty homomorphisms. or checkers. or
tic-tac-toe. "

the one monk: "what is your point?"

the other monk: "I too, do not do zen"

at this point, the other monk, who has been climbing a tree,
finds a random branch, and chomps down on it. conveniently, there is an
avalanche, leaving the other monk hanging by his teeth.

commentary: from tomb to womb to bomb to comb: ask what the
stencil-makers decree at midnight.

what a wreck? don't listen to this guy. he's mad. and daft. and mad and daft.

Sri Maharaghava
Wisdom of Long Dead People
I am Sri Maharaghava, a venerable treasure trove of mystical knowledge of questionable value.
You are a seeker questioning for the Deeper Truths, the More Fundamental Meanings, the Hidden Messages when the Record is Played Backwards, and the Subliminable messages in the fabric of the cosmos. Today I will speak to you about the Wisdom of the Long Dead People, an ancient lore of such a highly esoteric nature that no one knows it at all. Not even myself, but that will not prevent me from teaching you the fundamental precepts of the Wisdom of the Long Dead People. The Long Dead People, are those who died aeons and epochs ago from a variety of shocking and astounding sexual and cardiovascular ailments and excesses. While they weren’t dying or being dead, they spent their time in philosophical contemplation and advanced spiritual meditation, achieving such exotic mental states such as superangst, hypernirvana, metaglee, and gingivitis. Because you are most likely concerned with transcendent states, you being a materialistic westerner who paid for this recording from your trust fund, I will skip superangst, metaglee, and gingivitis, and discuss hypernirvana with you. Hypernirvana is a state of mind only encountered in the deepest of meditative furries. Before the acolyte can enter hypernirvana, she or he must obtain certain prerequisite mental states (as listed on page 103 of the course manual). She or he must have already obtained samprajnata samadhi, asamprajnata samadhi, nirvikalpa samadhi, positive cash flow, nocturnal enuresis, spontaneous orgasm at the sight of burning rubber, premature balding, an allergy to movies with Christopher Walken in them, and a deep and abiding respect for the deliberate idiocy of the second to last chapter of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. Some of these prerequisites may be waived by permission of your guru (usually after sexual congress or monetary donation to said guru). Now, to brass tacks. In order to establish a state of hypernirvana, one must first form the Rhizome of Napoleon. It is necessary to extend one’s subtle body in twenty four spatial dimensions and two time dimensions. That is the first stage of the formation of the Rhizome of Napoleon. Then one must perform modular transformations upon that form until it is invariant under such transformations. That modular invariance implies that the aspirant has successfully shaped their subtle body into the Rhizome of Napoleon. “Rhizome” is Manitoban for “root”. The Rhizome of Napoleon allows one to tune one’s internal vibration to that of the Cosmic Hum. The formation of the Rhizome of Napoleon requires numerous physical gymnastics, which are easily performed by satisfying any sexual whims of your guru, or by long grueling nights standing upside down in a vat of catnip while listening to the 1812 Overture played backwards. It continually amazes me how many acolytes choose the second method over the first.

Once you have achieved the Rhizome of Napoleon, you must align it with the Griess Vertex. This can easily be done by going to your local Vicar and forcefully asking them for the latitude and longitude of the Griess Vertex. If they fail to provide you with the latitude and longitude of the Griess Vertex, you may spray paint “Vicar Wossname has sex with Polygons” on any convenient brick wall with full assurance that the authorities will apprehend you for violating the local antigraffiti statutes. If your Rhizome of Napoleon is particularly well developed and free from skin lesions, you may automatically and spontaneously align with the Griess Vertex. The next stage, and this in my exalted opinion is probably the most crucial, is to activate and energize your Max Quordlepleen chakra. The Max Quordlepleen chakra is located eighteen meters from your adrenal glands in the seventh dimensional superspace of which our ordinary three dimensional space is a eigensubspace. The Max Quordlepleen chakra is of fundamental rectitude and transgresses such obtuse concepts such as Portugal, Belgium, Crocodile Dundee, Christopher Lloyd, the Lerch Transcendant, and tulips. Do not forget the tulips! You must sit in a cubical room with a solid erbium floor while completely naked and uncomfortable, and say “I am a wascally wabbit” eighteen thousand, two hundred and forty six times. This will begin stirring an unction within you. You may feel surly and want to imitate a sequoia tree. Do not give into these temptations or you will be transfigured into a small marble statue with the legend “Lost In Space” written upon it. You will experience chills, sweating, nausea, the United States Postal Service, and the fear of wombats. If at this stage you are overcome with glee about the state of Nevada, you have failed as a mystic. Any stray thought of the state of Nevada means that you are unworthy of being a mystic, that all of the other people at the Eternal Mystics Club will spit at you and call you “thou nonmystical being of doubtable provenance”. My friend Rodpondal Wulgins thought of Nevada and spent the rest of his life as an investment banker for a moderately successful futures firm in Manhattan. More likely than not you won’t think of the state of Nevada. If you start seeing images of pentagons, then you have activated and energized your Max Quordlepleen chakra, and are ready to engage in the final key to Hypernirvana.


Duckling cultivation. That is right my friend. The careful purchase of duckling seeds from a mail order or internet company and the planting of these seeds will show to your guru that you have achieved the vaunted and oft inaccessible state of hypernirvana. It is likely that you will achieve this and become beloved by your friends and enemies. You will be reviled by cotton balls. Purple penguins will materialize and nuzzle themselves against your generative organs. A deep and abiding sense of peace will overcome you, as the Demon Wizworrongoa envelops you, because the whole process of Hypernirvana preparation in reality turns you into the only food source which keeps the Demo! Wizworrongoa alive in foul perpetuity. Despite my advise to many a young acolyte to not engage in the pursuit of hypernirvana, they fork over their monetary units, nuzzle themselves against my generative organs to achieve the Rhizome of Napoleon, avoid thinking about the state of Nevada, plant duckling seeds, and then are annihilated in the most egregiously disgusting way by Wizworrongoa, leaving nothing but their wills in which they have already given their entire fortunes to their guru. “Look” I say, but it does not a whit of good so I have to say it again “Look”, and by that time it is usually clear to me that both the first “look” and the second “look” were completely ineffective. These aspirants keep coming. Generation and generation of poor, deluded souls seeking enlightenment and self-knowledge, paying exorbitant amounts of money to be told about exoteric and esoteric spiritual and metaphysical practices. They say “Ashley, doesn’t Hypernirvana look so spectacular? I’ll put it on my MySpace page” or “Dammit, that career in bribery and corruption was so stupid of me. Why don’t I try a weird metaphysical philosophy that seems to include annihilation by some weird demon after a long and gruelling set of tasks?” But that is the Wisdom of the Long Dead People. They were devoured by cardiovascular and sexual ailments caused by being devoured by the Demon Wizworrongoa, so why don’t you, as you love following strange and incorrect practices by the logical fallacy Appeal to the Authority of Dead and Questionably Intelligent Practices Performed by Idiots and Fools.
Thank you for your time. I, Sri Maharaghava, wish you the best.

Oxymandias Arcsine's Expulsion from Eden.

Occasionally I am asked to write about my sources, and I have to admit, with difficulty, that the regions of the logosphere that I inhabit regularly, or at least set my feelers onto, are distant, entwined, twisty, and thewn with metallic sinews. Let me give you an example. There are two (roughly speaking) universes. One of them has the ability to change mathematics in the other in such a way that some rational point that seemed like it ought be a member of the z^5+c->z mandelbrot set wasn't. The scientists in one thought this would make an ideal method of sending signals to the other universe: once the other scientists in the other universe figured out that the appropriate reverse method involved complicated rhythm modulation for an ancient tribe's drum-ceremonies and how to send (fairly low bandwidth) signals in the reverse direction. The real kicker occurred when they realized that there weren't *two* universes involved, but one, and the laboratories in question were three miles from each other. That made everyone's eyes all squinty for a while as academia had been given a strange fruit to chew on, and nobody was really certain what to make of it for a while.

defining mechanical questions

I suppose, you just have to wonder what was going on... it's not been a nahambe since the Tea islands were abandoned, and perhaps longer than that: did the horologers and the chronotés have a divisive instruction set left over for the mystics once their rain-dance was completed? The sound of the drums certainly did leave an impression on the up and coming professors of certainty. The stamina required to sit through one of the lectures left most of the population feeling rather out of place: they had all of those symposia and convocation dialogues to rout through and perhaps find some degree of fiduciary or fiscal confidence in: the little opinions and the tachyon dressing made for a disaster unlike any of them had seen previously: a thunderstorm! An omen! A radish! An extract of lemonade: a citrus filament along which there are many fibrils and convalescing nudibranchs and clones of David Attenborough speaking with immense sagaciousness about the development of some misbegotten marine species or another. Boggles the imagination, yessirree it does leaving the peanut or tomato allergy that the subatomic particle might have had to the dust. What? what was I worrying about?

duxlorve whenglewhommer

Associated Frontangnale, New Brunswick, Mastopolongle: Ernest Statewine Meissnerfloyd today demonstrated the first nondiphthongous astrolabe at the Vice-Principal's Sundry Reception. The Astrolabe was then taken into state custody since it "vitally reflected the State Scientific Interests" and "therefore must be escorted to an undisclosed location twelve miles underground of Franzley, along with its creator." The public was informed that needless suburbane experiments would then procede.

of radiolemons

the confused charioteer had enough feldspar to coat an area three football fields in size, but that wasn't going to disambiguate the electrically charged lemon that he had stowed away in the small pouch: the lemon's oscillating ambiguity was increasing in intensity and volume and soon it would be fluctuating so rapidly and at such a magnitude there was a question in his mind about the survival of every species on the continent: should the lemon's fluctuating ambiguity exceed some critical parameter then everything would be volatilized into hydrocarbons, noble gases, and small scraps of paper containing bewilderingly foolish philosophical speculations in a variety of dead and more likely nonexistent languages. Most likely. Moreover the explosive (or is it implosive) delemonization would have consequences that could last millions of years: radiocitrotopes released into the water supply would have deleterious effects on many forms of life, even affecting their genetic material until the population of citrus-mutants reaches an all time gold-ribbon high of infinity.

the financial conditions of the rex-garg

The electromechanical Lord of Lissis-T'Nellepont, one singularly odd Gastrogrieg Rinelphron, has made it his life's purpose to invent a type of singing pastry, to wit, an Operatic Muffin, capable of belting out the high notes, a la alto, tenor, and a variety of other Italian classifications for singing pitch that were condemned in the Musical Inquisition of The Year of the Rotting Turnip. Because the financial stability of the entire land was at risk, it was eventually decided that all ten thousand of the precessionaries who demanded the putative singing pastry would be given compensatory damages in kind at the end of the fiscal year. I, of course, being one of the centennial collectors employed by the treasury to make sure that such plans are executed properly, had no say in the reprehensible, final, outcome: I had to make due with half a dram of Salgjarje extract every day, and living in a hut at the edge of the city with enough materials to make thin and reedy soups and teas: I had the other essential ingredients of life: a dry roof over my head, pens and ink, various peculiar and exotic texts concerning the religious significance of projective sheaf-moduli preserving abstract weight conserving complex functors in high meditative states: all in all a good life, but not wet enough: life was, and still is quite, quite dry. I suspect that life may get a whole less dessicated shortly.

alternate time measurement practices

I think the time here is measured in less than rational units -- the damn Ulstlings that run Marasoonga don't believe in either nahambes, nanoseconds, or kalpas. They think that Planck times were invented by Tarazanoff Eigenfrost as a way of believing in turnips. They are fond of the xoxongulus, the freemingkrept. the half-nossling, the ranfid-doornail, and the zoonch, and their clocks are marked as such. But what, pray tell, is a zoonch? They do not say, and when pressed for details of their timekeeping system, they wail something to the effect that "Bleemengasts do not accrue at the falling of the snowflake, neither the mass ministers nor the Lombard dinques make an arrestingly transparent declaration of freedom: do you demand that we measure ourselves so dully, in arcs and lines and other mismarinated insults to the Butterfly Queen! It is the deontic precipice that we must endure every time you deny us our heredity with your archaic and misguided (and, more to the point, wholly inaccurate measurements of time..." and so on until the listener's ears rot from the litanies and the castigations until they realize that there's no convincing a dude that believes that time is best measured by the seasonal fluctuation of the diffraction of neutrinos by the ears of mice!

oh, the magnificent toxin and the flying machines

Meditations on a french fry: the forbidden fruitbat makes the chiropracter an obscene offer,
and not to be underdone, then proves the Riemann hypothesis using only a ruler, a compass,
and some very peculiar projective modular ultrahyperbolic sheaf-moduli preserving
Grothendieck functors purchased from an incredibly strange person who lives at the edge of
the river: they were in a small pouch with accompanying directions: just add water. This the
mad mathematician did, and then with some fairly bizarre uses of a ruler and compass managed
to prove Riemann's hypothesis. This mad mathematician then went on to prove a number of
somewhat demented conjectures of Euler and Ramanujan, and then finally became distracted
by the color of the rainbow. Whilst being distracted, she then realized that the formal power
series for pants contained a voraciously confusing datatypes for coefficients. When she discovered
that she was impelled to become an average spelunker and to find an association of speleologists
to sate her caving fancy. This was unwise, though, because the local cave system had just been
contaminated with a strange and worrying toxin called "The tears of Arnold Palmer", which
changed one's mental capacity for the greater, by several millionfold, but had the peculiar and
worrying side effect that it also rendered one's mind incapable of comprehending the slightest
thing to do with any consonant, consequently anyone who was afflicted by this toxin became
unable to coherently and cogently relay any of their now-magnified mental capacity's startlingly
lucid insights about the state of the world in any form comprehensible to anyone else: they sound
like gibbering idiots, and the only known cure is a specially prepared italian-thai dish containing
over three hundred different varieties of cheese while singing a specially written basque ditty
at twice normal speed all while juggling seven eggs: the combined effect is to completely bewilder
the glial cells and consequently return the poison victim's intelligence to normal. You have to wonder,
though, why nobody believes that Spain is a trapezoid.

a bit of ephemera

Neelound Saint Fongealy-Hipparsisse's paper submitted to the International Conference of Incomprehensible Studies, viz.: "Le Neeebleauw Frothendieck de la Marchmanais Pleurissy et la Nyngloroook Vlindlebleeble" will be published in the Centennial Abroops de La Sneengleaux under the title "Improbable Techniques for the Deboraxification of Marchhares and other spatial constrictions not Porously Comprehended via the Nobliuski Transformation"

a dvorak moment in a neutrino sea, drumming the snowflake tine.

The minarets of He'Am are filled with innumerable and incomprehensible treasures, all of which defy the human capacity for rational evaporation and other more imprecise desires for explication: they are multicellular, musical doodads of somewhat murky character, all of which have scintillating, iridescent, coruscating, radiant, self-transforming components of a variety of material compositions and even more bizarre arrangements of chords, quavers, and semiquavers. The experiencer is left feeling as if they have seen beyond the surface of the universe, into the cosmic ocean of reason, maybe even into the mind of god. The sensation that one has just missed the scent of god is often experienced by those who witness the towering crevasses, the abundant silences, the strange people with their odd hats and even odder perfusion of beliefs who crowd around the minarets and offer the scantest of advice, the principal coffers of deliverance and perfusive wonder. But because their art is so beguiling, one often loses track of time. I have to say, though, I have to stay, it's just not worth missing. And after the whole thing is over, you just want to examine your fingernails.

abridged mensuration for the lemon monster: a retrospective

The mention of the Gregarious Kinetic Festival often leaves the tourists in a state of complete bewilderment: after all they've just travelled well over eighty megaparsecs to see a strange man in a billowing gaberdine with fluorescent galligaskins denounce the proton as blasphemous and heretical all while chewing on sleepy tea leaves and spiralling out of control in his chaotic and untranslatable monologue about other supposedly obscene elementary particles. For this man is the Pauper of Reason, a profession of which there are few practitioners: his job, which Prelveng State pays him handsomely for, is to spout the most nonsensical and incomprehensible garbage possible, for a number of what are very important but (or so I am told), enormously inscrutable reasons. The Festival also features a variety of other incomprehensible activities by what are otherwise seemingly normal entities, which keep the attention of easily entertained tourists handily

mathematics gone awry

Dr. Atelier-San-Gumbfrunt of the La Spirulina Institute of Numeroparanoia announced today that their advanced computoid machine had calculate the twenty seventh octillionth octillionth digit of 7 today. He reports that it's a two. Further experimentation by Dr. Atelier-San-Gumbfrunt will reveal the three hundred quadrillionth billionth millionth digit of 18, as well as the coefficients in the formal power series of the function y=x-3. Not to be underdone by scores of irrational numbers (like 2,4, 37, and sqrt(banana)), Dr. Atelier-San-Gumbfrunt intends to attack well-approximated rational numbers next, such as pi, sqrt(7), and e^67. He intends to use a clever calculator, a lighting wit, and some illegal algorithms which were absconded by him and his fellow professors at Institute.

my genetic mockwurst leaves the cancer lasso stunned

The principled concurrency between the primary lemon and the secondary snodgrass module leaves much to be desired: namely the transparent application of the monstrous elephantine probability cormorant is not precise and leaves a gap of size one to the power of thirty seven pieces of potato fritters, a quantity that is neither appropriate for common consumption nor egregious enough to permit unilateral laminations of the afterthoughts of the storm ceiling and because of the ambiguous time in the green land one must precariously balance the derivations of the Master Calendar with the chances that one of the five types of souffle will be present at the wedding of F'Brad andU'Naniwa because the law is a precise document and one must follow its incomprehensible prescriptions all of the time, or so F'Brad's mother frequently says when prodded. I, being mad, prefer the deranged approach: a thing unlike itself is another thing like a Walrus or like a Dead Crystalline ocean made from vitrified, keratinized mustard. I believe that this method, when applied to the methylated dimers on the scone sea will result in firm and appropriate massages that will be available to all people

Easter Eggs in North Canadian Computer Software Corporations Computer Software Products.

North Canadian Computer Software Corporation has released Boring Software Product 1.8.10b, Dull and Listless Software Product 2.10.3d this year. While it might seem that both of these software products are meaningless and stupid (and indeed in over ninety percent of the time, using them is just that), they do ship with some amusing easter eggs:

If you enable Dirigible Mode in BSP 1.8.10b, then press the control, shift, spacebar, F82 key, and the lowercase elephant key with your second nose while humming the Battle Hymn of the Republic, you will flip the magnetic polarity of East Dakota.

If you enable Secondary Cow Implosion mode in BSP 1.8.10b, wiggle your fifth ear, press the F33.1 key while simultaneously sneezing, you will change the color of Jupiter's Great Red Spot to bluish orange.

Some thoughts on Dr. Francklemoose

Dr. Francklemoose is insane. Last year he ordered 10^190 snails from the Norwegian Snailwerks, New Bedford, MA. This year he is planning on ordering the reciprocal of that quantitity, 1/10^190 snails. Dr. Francklemoose has exactly three nostrils, but can have anywhere from 3-2i to sqrt(8801) spleens at any given time. Dr. Francklemoose was born in the Century of the Beetle and died in the Century of the Incontinent Abstract Concept. Dr. Francklemoose believes that the solution to all problems is: "a furious application of crystalline mustard, Lie groups, faster than light episiotomies, and of course, cigars made from mouthwash.". Dr. Francklemoose does not believe in Ketchup, Belgium, antimatter, or eggs. Dr. Francklemoose was present at the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Dr. Antwerp stages a protest

Discombobulated Press, New Veenchvirrow: Dr. Squeedgefurrow Antwerp staged a protest at the headquarters of Dystopia Pharmaceutics Incorporated. Dystopia Pharmaceutics just released a new anti-arcsine of seven medication to prevent rash and frightening attacks of the arcsine of seven in people. The medication is called Reedfleepster (omoxifulab hydrobromide). Dr. Antwerp contends that Reedfleepster causes (amongst other things): warts, nasal phalangeal pittocking, diurnal polychromia, and binaural modular functionosis. Dr. Antwerp also contends that Reedfleepster was tested on laboratory pronouns, and that such testing is not under FDA guidelines: any tests on laboratory pronouns are not applicable to humans, no matter how precise and clinical the testing protocol happens to be. Dystopia Pharmaceutics' Spokesdroid X22-4 said today "Reedfleepster is a best of breed medication, designed to cure all incidence of arcsine of seven in sentient life forms, and that Dystopia Pharmaceutics finds Dr. Antwerp's protest wrongheaded and stupid, and is suing to have his nostrils replaced by chloroplasts..." and so forth and so on. PETP (people for the ethical treatment of pronouns) whipped creamed bombed one of the labs that Dystopia Pharmaceutics uses to test their product.

the reason my nostrils are slightly questionable

In the fifty odd years since the invention of the nostril, we have seen much in the way of the nostril pirate, the criminal element designed to interfere with the normal functioning of nostril based commerce. Because of the paradoxical nature of nostril based economy, it has been necessary to outsource nostril piracy to Norway.

mathematics primer

circles divided by squares equal hawaii. brazil metadivided by tetrahedra is scotland. the infinite sum of an infinite number of monkeys is an equally infinite number of mistranslations of hamlet into Belgish (the language that Belgians speak). when ostrogoths are divided by visigoths, lemons result. two oranges and eight grapefruit equal five megabytes of memory. if two trits and seven quadrangles are subtracted from a dirigible, how many nickels are left over? if you divide a hexagon by a pentagon the result is brazil multiplied by spain divided by the square of japan. if you integrate, from zero to infinity, the molecule of glycine with dindia, the result is two pairs of pants, an angry goddess, and a plentitude of accidental hydroxylations conducted by the Marchmain of Hyderflunx, Sir Trangello Afforgue. If a square is subtracted from the number six, a hyperhedron with 2 gonglezillion faces results. If a circle is multiplied by eight, an octacircle results. Finally, if a homomorphism is split along the adjoint functor of wollancz, the Strimpy of Heegerale results.

random news items from beyond the Vleenvlonx of Keptin Neutrino

Recently, Amarpizduon Metaphlentics introduced /The Dog/, a furry mammalian version of the calcium atom ready for use in domesticated pet scenarios. Amarpizduon Metaphlentics has produced /The Egg/, /Basil/, and more recently than anything mentioned so far: /The Mongeese/.
Their sister corporation, Phelenxarium Ambiltrunctrics has discovered new sheep deposits in Nafarplod, Xongling Furrows, and Blesterbiere Accidentum, and sheep mining is set to commence within six months in all three locations. The sheep market is spectacularly good these days, with production over fourfold of last decade's sheep mine output, and sheep futures are in good company these days. Westrell-Gallis-Wrunxvrenx Ventures Semilimited has announced the invention of the so-called /spoon/, designed to aid in liquid food consumption scenarios, and this on the heels of the so-called /fork/, designed to aid in solid food consumption scenarios. Ulhylex Phrontisnomics has come out with a new version of Ancient French Meaningless Philosophy, to compete with Nyhekpilon Phrontisnomics Ancient Belgian Meaningless Philosophy, version 87. Warvellen Systems Ambifederated has finally managed to dihydrogenate oxygen atoms and invent a kind of universal solvent, though they were denied the patent for idiocy reasons. The Marsberry Disease Initiative has invented at least four new designer diseases that cause hideously painful disfigurement and is prepared to market these diseases to males ages 18-35, and is looking to expand its market in Cabbage Fungus Rot and It's The Evil Red and Yellow Spots Again, Dear to Voonxvill, Yetterwort, Brayxberrow and Yendrew this quarter. /It's The Evil Red and Yellow Spots Again, Dear/ has been banned in Dindew, Pwerd, and Gollovry for inciting public insanity. Bretbant Industries has invented a quackless duck for use in ice-freezing operations and low gravity environments. Seegstill, Hollow, and Mutchybluggle is pioneering artificial nostrils for use in seedy bar environments.

beginning the froth cycle once more (dysfunctional)

something like the fiftieth approximation of the scrying lemon makes the meatminister fret and worry: oh, woe is the dipsonian echo, oh moe is the larry that toms and toes. Make no mistake, artist and confuser, the message is that the communication is definitely garbled. Oh, why is the paradox so ebullient and filled with a chaos that is unlike any that has been approximated previously. The thin curls of vaporous efflugia make no man weep for the days of yore, when coffee was made from pronouns and protonaceous protein floatshakes were all the rage in upper lower North Allanagara. If such complicated and strange effluvia might be divided into their fundamental modes then no Lieutane like St. Georgies might have a method for finding out where the lost harmonic was left, where the dust storm of the monstrous alabaster was translocated.

wombatosis is an incomprehensibly stupid disease

Argyard Phleebleman's collection of books includes the following doozies: Biochemistry of Middle-Earth, A Compendium of Diseases only Belgians Get (which is illegal in Kyoto, for reasons that completely escape me), The Weird Noise of the Gibralter Ant-Parakeet, One Thousand and Seven Techniques for Lying about your Blood Type While Speaking German, Melizzy Wilxrab's Methods for Painting One's Body Blue with Crayons, Leenwoong Stonzelyammer's Memoir of Selectric Pants.