one day in the life of a hyperdimensional pimple

Nerminandorah Fvuungyaraab CSq. (Centromere d'Squalladio, one of the five degrees that requires the electronic digestion of a pancreatic biopsy along with intense review by the Inquisse Fluvhurtoisse for eight months, along with the intense scowling of Lvetvuum Bartandale in order to be conferred by the Prooice Guignuifre of Cherzens, Sahanjelly Sparasticum in an inelegant ceremony involving the molluscan bifurcation of a garnet garlic clove as well as the recitation of the hideous anthem Yrogueflunby d'Fnuntum by the New Yasphrey Amalgamated Choir of Idiots and Other Persons of Less Than Nominal Capacity for three long, gruelling hours, accompanied by the eructation of Sallbrassico Tertungtip for thirty eight consecutive minutes.) stared disconsolately at her spoon, covered in beetles and mustard and gargarice brands that had been illegal for nigh-on forty cycles, and gristened herself to consume the bizarre poultice while Ermandio Vasclepftanh's hideous caterwauling emanated from the more byzantine heteromoronicides of Vor Clarzm. As the beetle legs and congealed mustard mixed fervently with a few remaining unoxidized molecules of cetylpyridinum chloride along her throat, the pustule that had been floating three inches in front of her nose the last five months, connected to the rest of her body by her hyperspacial anatomy, burst most disgustingly, releasing Hypercoccinia tesserensis (Van Mudgeweadge's Very Disagreeable hyperdimensional bacteria), Olroachithoabas brantwongifensis (Little Lady Artentoot's Vapidly Horrible Microorganism), as well as good old Staphy McInfectyou, which she cleaned up with Old Mister Fluorine's Astringent Cleaning Paste No. 22. Ah, the joys of the good life, when mustard gargarice and beetles pop old hyperdimensional pimples, and the symphony of Dvood Mransiber plays on the Sonic Walrus Quad Digital CD system.

heptalogical legal systems

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

plorbisse reporte de la sinquini fomblossonge!

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

three three seven (337)

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

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

The Traceless Christina Ricci Tensor and the Cardassian cosmology

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

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

nonblocking i/o on the booyakashic record

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

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

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

remarks on the indecency of the coffee bean

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

shims

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

Fictional Mathematics Papers

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

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

the mysteries of physics

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

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

that's all that's nothing.

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

teh milk molecule

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

searching against the grain

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

unfocusing

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

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

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

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

from the third Technical Appendix

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

language elementals are fun

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

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

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

such is life.

accidents happen

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

I was distracted. Weren't you?

catastrophes and remonstrances

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

ne'er do well.

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

essential female and male mysteries

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

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

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

three, three, seven.

preparations

"okay, we've gotten everything aligned", said Frayguor.
"even the multisplints? even the binary nosewhorls?" replied Utermniud
"even the multisplints", replied Frayguor, in a huff.
"then why won't it start?"

terhadap

Saylast mebongo, I am certain of the profundent premaritime trithypthonguency that is the sweet pungency of awarness last derived by the currencies of the Umong. I am a bastard, a principle minded by the Theorem of Beeblebrox, the nicest pos-cut I can find, but am I present, do I contribute to the dough, the visible glutinous froth that leads into the tomorrowhences of yesterdaymemory? Had I a campo a field a ommunique to the deifarct, would I be ready for the meaningful transposition of fear and mindrage, then I would set alone to atone to see to be. Ah, the prof says we're in luck, it's time for Absolute Beeblebrox Mode.

kything

Arvila imagines that the communication between the Alvar (or the Valar, depending on your local argot) who are high-frequency (hence 'whiny' or 'pissy', like orange juice or urea or the Carbon-Nitrogen-Oxygen cycle in a star) and the Cosmic Feminine Principle (which is nameless, timeless, Fourier-Inverse-Dual, and linguistically) dual to the Alvar, whose ministrations inside the cores of pulsars (both toothbrushes and neutron stars) are well known, are done primarily through kything -- necessarily two timebound clusters of entities who would wish to coordinate the dance of creation, perpetuation, and destruction -- should prefer a method of communication not merely monombent from, but diombent to the current nahambe.

Chronoskedastically (*we* thank Madeline L'Engle for the term), kything and telepathy are very different monkeys. Telepathy is like the artful arrangement of fortunes in Chinese over a telegraph wire. And my brain is up, so more later when my hands aren't so out of it.

Zrelvwharf 122b

One of the nicest sights in Jeongle amongst the Zrelvwharves of Cirappan is Escher Point, where a static Jumanjion lies. The Jumanjion is a weight 22-alpha variety and is cross-ramified with transjective space, with a countably infinite number of copies of Jeongle arrayed around it. The Jumanjion connects to a presingular samsara bound universe which is a proper Whence, namely Escafai-Charanungo-Thurdap-Praelioenior of Dirithyrillion when the Chung angle is pi/37 and the Star Sign of the Notorious Wosselflong is Heptagonaia. It is predicted that this Whence will hit a orthosingularity (but not a hypersingularity) within three nahamabes on the Covaia Kalendricum

rqri arrays

"In order to network quantum mechanical computers, a device called a RQRI array is required -- the acronym stands for "Realtime Quantum Retroreflecting Interferometry" array. Occasionally the network will burst -- all nodes will be simultaneously emitting data and absorbing data beyond their coherence threshold. In order to prevent this from occurring, a gadget called a Burst Contarxer is required." from Phlegelthon Caromby's famous text /Networking Quantum Computers: An Introduction/

drayzmire gorge

In the Epoch of the Sungulls, the Chalice of Trelfontar was lost in the touch-kythe lines of Ausillinga, and I was duly plural with my anima. She is a delightful symphony of coherent endives, a polar linguistic phonon to my quark-charged star, an explosive commentary on the human condition, a principally laboriously network of isotopologous neurofluorofungus intersecting with my multiply quaternionic reticulated network of fire and acid, a flavorful water elemental radiating sublimely corroherent layers of astral iodine, a mutating matrix of sand castles, a prana trader on the shores of the Lohaspo River, in Sellinga Green, one throntear diombent of the Plumontale Stone Crystals. In the inner heptagonal sanctum when the symmetries were aligned and triality was comprehended, a plan of stunning clarity was concieved. To duly impart us both with reality, to trade old scores and settle old pains, a plan of such astonishing subtlety that even the neutrinos in Narnia were consulted for their opinions, the Seraphinian Culture, the Loardastrils of Kertetheron Green. The Lord Major of Aelzron, James Henry Ernest Baysbrock, and Harold Welxrab of Etokel. The sign said "Apocalypse for Hire", and I was ready.

Vlurfked culture

The Vlurfked culture on Cruikthorne (five and a half throntears from the Greater Avylkinean Whorl, and subumbral to the Ferrallilars cluster) was one of the most touch hostile cultures known in this cycle. The Vlurfked prohibitions on touch bordered on the ludicrous: one, no one was permitted to touch their bodies: defecation and urination were handled by machines. two, mothers had touch-restrictors implanted and took specially formulated anaesthetics so that they did not feel the baby kicking, and childbirth was handled by teleportation. (when the child was ready to be born, the mother was injected with surgical nanites that cauterized the umbilical cord, and then the child was teleported into a birthing chamber.). Sex was handled by machine -- there is artificial insemination. Surgery was conducted by robots. The law of the land was that "no one may touch another, or oneself". In the Vlurfked culture, one could not touch oneself, so in order to scratch an itch, one was to use a scratching stick.

In 3:43;2.(114,1) of the Euphilline epoch, Umbrella dancers from Falandra, in the Tertiary Spray of the Greater Avylkinean Whorl, at the request of the Jyljafari minority on Cruikthorne, theymigrated to Cruikthorne to permanently dismantle the Vlurfked culture's enforced touch-starvation. by 5,42;8.(114.3), the Vlurfked culture reached teetering, and with the gentlest of touches, the Falandran contingent of Umbrella dancers pushed the Vlurfked culture over the precipice of touch. Now they are known as the Vlyssanghai. Once every spring on the eleventh of Eulemnius, the Vlyssanghai and Jyljafari celebrate their liberation by touch-fasting for a day, and then having a touch-smorgasbord.

Sagahanta (pt 3.)

In the previous offering, there was a list of some principles of the ()'s Sagahanta (they would quickly disown it, claiming that after a while, that they're no one special and someone else is bound to come up with it, as prime numbers are transcultural objects), but this laundry-list glosses over (and perhaps gingerly fingers without actually comprehending, and this is not a problem, because it beyond the scope of the current offering) perhaps the inundatingly direct (and this is perspective dependent, and I am not in possession of the correct vantage point, being an outsider) idea about Sagahanta that outside researchers have grudgingly accepted (and that those who have gone native are equally as devoid of commentary and retroreflections thereof) that the coherence in both the personal and cultural level that Sagahanta induces / is induced by in the () is incomparable to the landmarks and bullwarks in the prehistory of their culture (or other cultures) before the Pax Epistemologica. They are without comment as a raindrop is lost in the ocean, as a melting snowbank merges with the water table, as snowflakes become thermohaline flows, as flames become steam become the absence of absence that is effervescent citricity.

Sagahanta (pt 2.)

The () have a lot of things to say about a lot of things. They have a very perceptive and perspective oriented cultural memory. The experiences of their society/cultural/what-have-you post Pax Epistemologica are -- and I hesitate to say 'rooted in', because they've got more on their plate than I have scope to say here, their non-uniqueness. Yes, there are other cultures that have waded in exactly these grounds, but they aren't common. The Frazjaxmire of Frazjaxmanthifor, the Nyhesserapun of Bovartis, and the Clymnepheres of Dryldgemuir Green come close, but haven't yet achieved the sheer we're no one specialness of the (). This is an exterior anthropological perspective: non-() anthropological researchers have frequently become enamored with Sagahanta, and this usually gives way to detachment. There aren't enough cultures that have reached the post Pax-Epistemologica state, and by that time, a general intellectual detachment has percolated throughout the species. Not speaking the language of the (), I am unable to provide you with an easy list of elements of Sagahanta, but there are some landmarks. Here they are, unordered. First: you're no one special, and you're nowhere special. Next: descriptive epistemologies are generally more useful than prescriptive ones: nature is not compelled to obey lambda expressions which you concoct concerning your anticipated future behaviour (or the behaviour of others). Then: dependent origination is fine, but no need to harp on it: nothingness is without the timbre of nihilism nor neither without the tint of wonderful indescribable ineffability. Furthermore: abstract philosophizing is a dead end. Be mindful of your physical world and your sensory diet first, don't get lost in a labyrinth of abstractions and mental constructions concerning the universe. Your beliefs matter: choose beliefs that make sense for yourself and your species in the long run, in terms of their effects and affect of your behaviour (a footnote to this says that before Pax Epistemologica people really didn't have much choice in what they believed). Finally, and cryptically: the absence of absence is effervescent citricity. ("effervescent citricity" is the idiom that we would say as "golden")

Sagahanta (part 1)

Sagahanta is a species-spanning quasi-religious quasi-scientific practice (it is what religion and science evolved into after the Pax Epistemologica) amongst the inhabitants of the third orb from the star Tellerengoa fifty five kiloparsecs from the Well of All Minds (in the Sazanaar Hypercluster), or thereabouts. It is practiced continually -- the acts of cleansing, calming, and purifying the mind are not held to be particular to any specific time of day -- in various meditation centers. There is no preaching -- that is to say, there is literature, but it's usually something that children gloss over at some point. The meditation centers come in a variety of formats -- and each is playing that format continuously for some fairly long period of time. They do change, but on the order of weeks and months, not of days and hours. Here are some samples of the types of centers they have: All centers share the same basic geometry, a very large room with different wood types demarcating spaces where the (and there is no word in English for this) may place brightly colored hexagonal towels. The centers are lit by solar power -- there are ultracapacitors and solar batteries to ensure a constant dim light all throughout the day and night. When (again, no English translation) is feeling in the mood, () goes to one of these centers to their choosing. Because of the resemblance to honeycombs, each center is generally called a Comb. The Drone Combs consist of () playing didgeridoo like aerophones. The Stillness Combs consist of () silently sitting down in half or full lotus depending on their physical health. The Drum Combs consist of lots of drumming. Occasionally there's a bash (whenever there's sufficient interest), and these Combs are combined -- but that is a rare and special event. The species (they are rather particular about not naming themselves, and have taken a point of when it comes to biological taxonomy, expressly not bothering with it -- overconcern with taxonomy was one of religion's detriments that they carefully excised in the process of undergoing their Pax Epistemologica, and they prefer not to speak about Sagahanta -- the closest English translation of the word is 'mind bathroom'. This species enjoys an immense amount of global coherence).

language and emotion (you do not articulate words with the throat and vocal cords alone)

In Eeh Tristan Kermulyan's piece On Hominome Languages, Kermulyan offers the following thesis: "the fundamental formants and phonemes of hominome languages generally induce the same emotional contrails in all members of a particular species regardless of geographic distribution." Kermulyan defends this thesis by remarking: "the articulation of speech -- formants and phonemes and all -- results from the same physical processes regardless of the person, and therefore, the same tissues will be excited by similar vocal vibrations. It is pointless to regard a language as a random, historical arrangement of sounds without factoring in the emotional and physical basis of speech: words and phonemes which, through the patterns of their phonemes, excite similar vibrations in oral tissues, will have similar emotional valences, and this should be independent of the origin of the language, therefore we should expect to see patterns of phonemes with similar meanings from evolutionary distinct language lineages." Vhe also goes on to say "the m-sound in Om, Mom, amo" all have similar emotional valences. "erythro, rhodo, red, vermella". Kermulyan then goes on to say that what makes a language unique is the way it remixes these fundamental emotional timbre-hues into words and says that there is a lot of variation in which ways a language can remix them. He says: "if a child of one culture is raised from near birth in another, and knows only the language of the other, then all of its internal emotional-aural-hues will arise from the other -- this is to say that there the so called linguistic supremacy arguments that are offered by arrogant cultural partisans are manifestly false." he further goes on to say that he expects languages with similar emotional-timbre-hue sets to be harder to learn than ones with more distant remixes.

future quantum music wells.

Tremulous offerings: a chronic catalogue, or perhaps a chronotopy cantaloupe. Be they the debrided, rejudged, somnolescent recordings of  Other Time, did we broadcast our ink-tracings across the rhamnescent oblong interrogatories at a frequency at or above one point three seven two times ten to the sixty one Hertz? Had our tea-machines been carefully (perhaps egregiously) collimated into a kind of directed biomechanical symphony of incoherent kinesthetical Ur-Skulpturs? The Sun-Daughter of the Irrigated Celery hid amongst the viridian tipped vermillion megaflora and transmitted Morse code in stationary photons into the void, preparing for an imaginary Mustard Rebellion? Her way is of studious and applied inscrutability. Of what controvertible focus were our equivalencies to be mated, or perhaps unfaithfully retransmitted by lossy reencoders? It's a dance, it's a directed arctangency graph, it's a intensity filter, it's the scent of marimba oil dissolved in carbonated glee, of the disbursement of oxygen by above megaflora, by the contemptible blowhards who occupy the Sav Faragandro Pub by Lvessy and 3 pi / 7 street, by the thin vaporous contrails of chance percolating through the green fields of Cassavarsis-on-Tovmire, prepending loss chess games and postpending amorous interludes, once again besmirching the noncrystalline asymmetry of time, waiting for a fervency that is neither attainable or attunable, and in that being the eidolons of noninured clemency, for their vows of thermal noise be abrogated against the wind, being understated like rotationally abjured jellyfish, awaiting that one perfect siphonophore, or just a lowly oxygen molecule dissolved in the surf: nay, says the hermit, for the sousaphone crows of distant smoke-puff cereals at two in the morning, prepared to provide some rather unusual deliverables, and in that, with no cormorant quorum available, does the radio wave diffracting neutrino offer any coherent commentary on the sleeping rocks: the show may go on, and the band may continue to play, but the sensory qualia of the show simply fail to impinge on the stones at all. They are silent witnesses, except those who are mined for materials for radios and music playing devices: their involvement in the process occupies a unquietly unique, and somewhat less than just, less than conscious but certainly not lost on sapients, position. The ore that would store the song in quantum states, rather than notes on paper, or cuneiform.

developments in post-thukdam decomposition trajectories

Scines? What treblossé did Nyingmen Dzueghchon during the ninth prellinary gamurlchtlychaub archleflunque through the nasturtia of Garabassango? I hear it's in the pamphlet, hold on a moment, ah, here we go: Nyingmen Dzueghchon of Tyemkairo-on-Valvussung achieved a record thukdam of 30 days at the New Urzmire Medical Center, thirty days until she was at thermal equilibrium with the outside environment, a record accomplishment, but the deep meditators of Tyemkairo-on-Valvussung are working on some refinements to thukdam. Their Chief-of-Research, Abbot Vnezmuess Orthoa says: "In addition to thermal equilibrium, we are studying the material disposition of the body: worship of mummified meditators is akin to the worst materialism, exactly the sort of thing that we're stridently opposed to. There are a number of possibilities that we are considering here: we could put the body in a thermal depolymerization machine and spread the atoms over the ocean... for both the energy that sustained the meditator and composed the meditator ultimately derived from the sun, and we believe it shows disrespect as well as not being carbon-neutral to un-fix fixed carbon. While the return of the carbon to an unfixed form typical of cremation appeals to our older elements, we now feel that it is a primitive and disrespectful way of communing with nature: we do not disrespect the work of plants, and to unfix carbon would be doing so. Another way of accomplishing this would to develop a sort of slow fungus, that only finds the bodies of those who have achieved thukdam appealing to incorporate. We admit that the thermal depolymerization scheme is *fast*, but we are interested in finding a carbon-neutral to positive way that is slow and advantageous over decomposition, therefore the notion of a fungal garden of the dead appeals to us. They would slowly become ecosystems".

dsungfruve

Tinjur? A bottle of salt? A purified messenger? A call to arms? Oh dearest me, the pleonasm of the deonticists might have come to be true? There's a campaign that wants large scale changes, whether great or small, and their not gradualists. Their solutions are shocking, rapid, and very risky. The chance of something wrong happening is pretty great, and unless their art is refined to ultraprecision then accidents and malfeasances of a most undesirable sort are likely to occur. On the more relaxed side of things, there are those who want to take little baby steps from here to there, and are not at all willing to go up steep learning curves. It's not so much a matter of being accepting of change or not, but it's about being more able to cope with the learning process, and the willingness to cope with extremely steep learning curves is probably more valuable than a simple allergy to change.

anthroposis

"anthroposis" is the state of being disgusted with humanity, and not sure of either one's epistemology to, or relation thereof with it. In Verdler & Rhynckoff's /Survey of Anthroposis Treatments/ (Vozgfe Press, New Yondroborough), Arnhec Crauille concisely describes anthroposis as: "the disgusting taste that humanity leaves in your mouth, dry, pasty, like pease porridge durian paste, and as a member of humanity you struggle with this once in a while. It's a sad fact that it's a scourge that is difficult to rout out because it's a member of the family of problems that do not easily effervescent solutions, though one must combine a wide variety of syncretic antidotes to oppose it: encouraging citricity, being wetter, eating fresh leafy vegetables, listening to music with a large bass component, being more open to touching people and being touched, being more tolerant of a diversity of opinions, eating a larger variety of foods and opening one to a wider variety of sensory stimuli. In the Internet Age (thankfully over!) the practical memetic currency of anthroposis was "lulz". It is shocking how long it took to recognize the pasty incoherence of lulz, as well as the fact that it is symptomatic of a precessionary nihilism and general disregard for other people. It is interesting how people's cultural radars were initially retargeted after the Second Pax Cultura to the insidious and not easily addressed pathology of lulzculture. We are fortunate to have a wide repetoire of tools to detect anthroposis and treat it. The research of Byzzkjien and Dronderferry has showed that by targeting sex-starvation and anthroposis together, the incidence of cancers in a society (controlling for other factors) can be reduced by three orders of magnitude. Targeting anthroposis in school age children reduces bullying significantly. We are fortunate to live in a day and age when we are lucidly aware of it."

letter to the editor

And then? And nothing! Look, at this: (points to *this*). Look, at that: (points at *that*). Therefore and logically p implies q. An arrow of implication? Why, in all my years serving tarts and muffins at the dockyards I have never seen such ludicrous misapplication of rope tying techniques employed to protect ducklings from wildebeests. Therefore and heretounder, be it resolved, that we, the oversigned, being of sound mind and untenably unsound body, do duly sign this writ, and deposit in a bottle, thrown either overboard or used to christen the boat, or perhaps even used as firelighters, for the purpose of being foursquare and prudent, for the nonprolonged fork prong, that we do commit our resources to the evanescent fulminations of out own Oedipauses, because dammit, McVerzlens, we have a palladium tonnage-engine and a bottle of the finest Munk and Yorky (vsop) to prepend our van valladges, our arrogances, our pirouettist, and our various skin diseases, because we wish to belabor our own confusions into this statement, which we have printed on parchment and submitted in triplicate to the editors of the Arplemont Clarion, because we believed our cause to be just, and the permitted avenues of redress were stultifyingly unsatisfying, and not knowing where to proceed or precess, we thus compiled our frothy frosted frustrations and exalted, exsanguinous, exasperations into this epistle and then, using what was ordinarily conventional xerox technology, trivided it (or triplicated), and then, using postal technology, fired it off. Whether or not our protest shall be registered or tossed in a dustbin remains to be seen.

pausing only for the pinna

Interruption. Prolongation. Discontinuance? Incontinuances? Blearily, one Forr Amhec wanders away from slumber, accidentally smearing the toothpaste on the mirror and the jam on the toothbrush. The radio alarm clock flickers to life. Forr puts the mouthwash in the cereal bowl after filling it with nutritive iron filings. "...and today Iris McMunney of Travvad Prefecture stated categorically that the University of New Avahthphathan would not be accepting a generous gift of thirty thousand iridium coated bananas from Lord Gyrus Grangshire, partly because the of the current banana and iridium surpluses, partly because of sigatoka, but mostly because nobody would have the foggiest idea of what the smeg to do with them. In further news, Barney Eilery of Cranague Point says..." and so on and so forth. In the distance Forr can hear a flock of bubblegum beetles, the sound of steamtrucks and traffic, the confusing array of early morning partisans and their tarmac gliders. Forr pauses to slurp down iron filings and mouthwash, then to brush his teeth, and wash his hair with mayonnaise.

larango harvest

Irrigation of the larango fields beyond the Stivinert country will be accomplished in three stages: first, mobile metallic gantries will be deployed every five hundred and seventy one meters. Secondly, spores of the water synthesizing bacteria of the species Euterpenia lawrenceofarabiensis will be sprayed onto the entire surface of the gantries using a Hekhitaris Industries Mark J Heavy Duty Bacterial Sprayer. Thirdly (or should it be minus-onely) the gantries will be coated by a nutrient medium made from only the finest of charred paper epistles written by madfolk of the Gorge. Euterpenia lawrenceofarabiensis is so efficient at hydrosynthesis that it can make roughly seven million molecules of water from a single sodium atom if the wind is in a north westerly direction and it is between the hours of ten am and four pm. This highly complicated scheme was designed by T'Lallaceadh Vpkeaseaich, Director-General of Irrigation Operations, New Frankfoord Corporation, New Sunley-on-Vraivargdale, Pun, Divided Kingdom, Lesser Qritain. Mr. Vpkeaseaich is quoted as saying (by the Pun Clarion) “ It is with great sadness that we can't employ the Elephanteer Hydrosyntheticists to the larango fields in the boroughs, provinces, and polities beyond Stivinert Country, as those regions are beyond those specified in the Habitat Preservation Clauses for the Elephanteers, and thusly may be considered as containing potentially lethal trace metals and quasiorganics, therefore the Elephanteers (and therefore their excellent hydrosyntheticists) could not be the water-bearing party for the irrigation projects of the larango fields of these regions. We have consulted with Penvanar Auelhpfe and Zavvak Hrefmaga, the preeminent Elephanteer hydrosyntheticists to come up with an advanced irrigation strategy, and we believe that the use of metal gantries coated with hydrosynthetic bacteria has the best chance of providing those polities beyond Stivinert country with the best water supplies and therefore with the juiciest, tastiest larango harvest that their populations deserve.”

family afternoon

The irreputation of Silas Canvernon is listed in the ninety thousand forbidden types of catnip. For the expulsion of the Doors from Arapfilon did the singing bird dismiss the Ornithonium Chorus: what a waste, I'm sure they had years of birdsong to make. Bleyvang's family sat by the crocus fields eating hot-dogs and beefburgers. Garmanhale Bleyvang sat cross-legged in the mire, watching insects interact on the pavement. Blortissia Bleyvang was tossing a trimarang around lazily, its three wings barely deflected by the faint summer breezes. Their mother, Syneschenta, sat under a Flossuary tree, eating an ollalieberry sundae and reading the inscrutable works of Paracelsus. Further in the distance, Celementhrum Bleyvang lied to the sun about his taxes, the cosmetically irrelevant third liver he had installed last week, and his general disposition. He lay on the ground, blue-green metallic sunglasses reflecting the near ultraviolet. Lazily, he turned on his radio just in time to hear a news report stating that the Vice-Arbonist of Relkekvlar had been accosted by a quasi-sapient banana. Syneschenta finished her sundae and found a trash-receptacle fungus in which to deposit the wrapping. Garmanhale seemed to be distracted by a passing steamfruit truck. Blortissia's tissue-phone rang: it was Leicesteria Wherkansky: her application to join the Muttering Thinkers of Perendrup had been approved. In the further distance, an elephantine chance-ignoring beetroot god minded the citrus lemniscates. Celementhrum sneezed, opening a can of Vodweiler, and generally ignoring the flock of catmites flying above. Then it started raining The Despicable Purple Fluid, as a result of atmospheric Mathieu function contamination, and the Bleyvangs went indoors.

irrigations aplenty

Four and twenty light words, staked in a rhye. A day past eight with five to go. Where did the Muttering bird come to roost. Askance an unasked question in pelargonide fury. Once, deus, twice, deux, thrice flew and then the many monkeyed tree of the everlast had its own excission point. Five four, five eight, how many times did I pause, did I revolve in anterograde motion, did I collect the precious essential oils of the tardigrade. Oh, lo, mayhaps a past prance gave me an unadorned reliance on vegetation and obstreperously mineral material. Clades of Ironmonger and Cheesemonger and Chessmonger delivered me a memory crystal in /tmp/brontosaurus. The source code I was haggling over was penned in Basque on the tanned hide of an Baluchitherium (or was it a Dvandvatherium?). Ask not what you can do for your Borough.

arrugala virescens

No? Were you inquired? Were you forgotten? Did the many toned Besmirch ask you a question? How has the progression erred? Who was inside the icosahedron? Questions like these I do not have answers for.

Smarmy Wolbrutt

The paper Challenges to the Sex-Glasma of Rhunthipgen Racastagelder will not be published in this week's edition of Smarmy Wolbrutt. Instead, a thirty minute interlude of stroboscopic laser light will be typeset by the firm Havvafar, Schlrellen, & Congry in between pages 23 and 24. Instead of page 30, there will be a misprinted, upside down advertisement for Hfeff Bath Purity Crystals (now with Flovvoproteins!) indicating that pharmaceutical formulations of Hfeff Bath Purity Crystals can now be purchased at your local apothecary for two drachms a dram, or a millishekel per liter, depending on your province or borough's local exchange rate. Also, in this edition, Lillian Van Aauldungfrepst writes an editorial condeming the practice of ferrolugubrious vonnop-toddling as practiced by the shortshoreman of the Green Wharf, suggesting that their appetite for hypermagnetic scullion points and flushed grollings might make the shipping containers more prone to the Helvetica scenario. There will be poetry by Zrullnipa Van Astgronne, a pithy diatribe by Vunculo F. Snorbins about the sad state of polydielectric zener tetrodes in the weird industries, several news reports from the current front in the war in Old Mlollopf, as well as reports of successful Mlollopfi refugees in Screllings and Frenns district, Vorset, in their Mlollopf cuisine shops selling laser marinated halal vronk meat. All in the next edition of Smarmy Wolbrutt, available at reputable local newssellers.

oh well

Varaster Mehlgvwhorl collects rindges. Rindges are apparently specially constructed Faberge like ridges, that are plasma coated with a number of different metals in turn, and then treated at twelve kelvin for fifteen years in oscillating hexapole magnetic fields, then blessed by two holy men of conflicting religions. The rindges are then vacuum sealed under lucite and kept in a maze of drawers in a environmentally controlled warehouse that Mehlgvwhorl maintains in Wyhervbrac Commons, by the Drayvespright Promontory. Mehlgvwhorl's collection has won some awards -- maybe the Vellespront Object Collecting Award, or the Trantellington Prize (seventy five thousand wonzlos sterling in polished bismuth cheeses or ravvit arcs or something esoteric and pretty. He tries to maintain a superposition of feeling about his collection: he is between vague-listless-irony and discontented-arrogant-ennui most of the time, but takes time out of alternate sundays to feel just a smidge of rotten-ameliorated-bathyscapesquenss. While most people see his collecting as being deeply and anesthetizingly dull and boring, the documentarian E. Thellington Wesselwright was sufficiently impressed by the subtlety of Mehlgvwhorl's emotions about his collection that he (sadly) produced a nineteen hour documentary about the fleetingest of Mehlgvwhorl's emotions. Two hours spent on ribald-otolithic-panegyric, followed by another two, ploddingly labyrinthine hours on velumniciously-obstreperous-noodle-rage, then another ear-wringingly painful minutes on dirigible-gas-excretions and so on. Wesselwright seems like a sommelier interested in disgusting the viewer with laborious, contrived, and vapid catalogueing of the Mehlgvwhorl's emotionscape.

just under the wire

Sirris Inglethorpe does not approve.

charging the oeuvre d'Lopsiquunt

Effars, we normally figure that those who live are the result of the ever so hard struggle to procreate, and so forth. Effars, the Te of Rehallaglot believe that those who exist are those who have, by their own carelessness, have failed to nonexist: for those that nonexist merry-go-round happily seem to be in a state of continual worship by those who have failed to nonexist. The nonexistent are innumerable, perhaps uncountably so, but that depends on how many quantum states various inscrutably tiny things can possess. The extant (or those who have failed to nonexist), well, they don't get the cake.

deengineering the escafnunt: an apology

Look, the binary trophies which were awarded to the princes of persuasion were not in fact some off the shelf doohickeys principled in the miserrors of the past: they were full blooded artificers with imperial signatures corroborating their tales and confirming their good standing in the metaconsortium's common weal: these farctators have imbued their filigrees with fine silver, fine gold, fine electrogyromagnetized elephantitis modules so carefully wrought by master Ballyrinthian craftsmen. Their work was unimpugnable and glistened with a two day accretion of Ven Lenxshmire's Exotic Fluorescent Purple Fungus.

Strange vavixules

herbs to counteract cyborg boot loading techniques

avasset! dzincua in major. barstalks charred and battenstaffed. Oh, catch me a drudgery, why wouldn't you? Vertiginously balanced on a cone in a force-potential precipice. Is it so swermy to wander acreages and villeponts on the undermoon? Pray tell me, what news of the schweiffplume? Are the Cheese Wars still being waged? Is Drontifet Mulvinsky still Vice-Arbasset of Foofaraw Junction? I have been out of the loop for so very long and my brain is so very soggy, probably a neurofluorofungus, so says my physiologist. But enough about Franklin Delano Roosevelt! Tell me about the initialization routines of a factory standard Blutveneer Cyborgus? Are the ram lacings straight and voombescent? Does the boot loader arrive at the key addresses in reverse lexicographic order or in hemialphanumeric order! I must know: for if we are to defeat the Flungian Laundry-Artists I must know these things so that in my Alchemy I can prepare a remedy, for perhaps some of these herbs I have stolen from the Scriveners of Yelvhreyl can counteract the bootloader. Perhaps some Yellow Orchidroot will interrupt phase IIA/4 of the principal kernel load, or some Oil of Zongsblossom will interrupt the device driver initialization, but I cannot predict which herb will have which effect if you remain silent, so speak!

and what was that counterexample?

Navhatthar Rethaghan travelled eighteen kempares to meet with the mathematican Zr. Zaktar Ralaquon to discuss a 2000 page proof on the Great Theorem of Tetraquiver Theory. In short, Rethagan pointed out, as succintly and lucidly as possible that the Great Theorem of Tetraquiver theory was in fact, false. “You say that this theory of yours is true, but there is a trivial and blatant counterexample -- one of many that I can easily pull out of my hat -- which renders most of this so called imperterbable theory of yours on very shaky ground: I can save it, yes, that's no problem, but I think that the consequences are some very disturbing ideas that run contrary to the major undercurrents of this proof that you've published. It's a phoenix that doesn't get all its feathers back, sadly. What it does get is worth mentioning, and I'll think you'll find that what results is worth talking about and discussing. While Tetraquiver theory might just be a walk in the park, and certainly an entertaining delusion for a Sunday afternoon or a waltz down by the park, it's nothing compared to the behemoth that logically follows from the smorgasbord of counterexamples I can pull out of my hat.” -- Navhatthar Rethaghan, Chief Imperial Mathemagician, Empire of the Lurid Goat.

beware the chance eater

Scessilauris Norhaia Avellevetrevan recieved the highest honors from the Davanne Institute of Nociception today: A Hh.D. Meta Cum Laude, the Pharipsees Prize, the Trellingtonian medal (amazingly earning both the bismuth and germanium coated versions). He studied polychthonovores in millivoids, which is apparently a hot topic amongst thanatobiologists these days, and his specialty was in the Ashayette chondruloplasmotopsian, which is apparently the freak of all freaks of all thanatobacteria: apparently it lives on the undigested et cetera of probability-based life forms: all those unchewable chances and transfinitesimal probabilities that Saint Vornian's Arch-Turnip and the Hasseliopsis syntugkhavore find indigestible are readily and eagerly digested, and thus attract colonies (thanatofilms) of Ashayette in their guttocks and gizzards.

be prepared.

The nightmare of the tonnage engines still lies deeply scathed in the iron-indium rods of the martindales and the gesschuts-vonglers of Vretnutnik. Translate the choo-choo sounds from Vattanagale to Prosperonian? Unhand me, thy revolverule! I say, it is a most pretuntimentious thing, a bar-stalk of a cavernosa, an antennule of a wovvodge-kermoiler. I, like most gentleflvranks of my trempmonkey, carry both stithers and varrumpstent in my broddage-bus, and a small supply of unfrundled mavverwoorts, each with ignition octonule and crupzaziole, ready for use during the craziest of follieres! So despair not with worries of whitherings and plask-harrangues, of jirrup-vovongules and dirripfengles: preparation is the key! I keep a frosted ontwornch with me at all times, its krepflascar steadied in Occam-fashion, and when a Lromaceous Krobbage interferes with my lunkvrooding, I can detach the rulling spoke and throw it at the Krobbage, the krepflascar volatilising instantly, defrosting the ontwornch, and with the nacreous, vaporescent clouds of ontwornch confusing the Krobbage, I can easily make my escape. Or, I could find myself in a Fluvium and accosted by a Starrapteous Closyvlocht: it is simply distracted by a flung stither. The point is that my seemingly obstreperous hyperpreparation protects me in these circumstances, and thusly I advise you to lean towards carrying an unscarred Apothripteon, a pillanied Gatheptika, and at least a brinning kit wherever you go.

behold the mad cheesewright

The ascidiomyceles did it's job: not a single cheesemonger in all ten boroughs of Caledon Te Tannoc woke on the ninth morning of the Lirobolatt cycle not unaware of how to factor a multicomposite Gnampiere sum, or what the subprime numbers of Lenceslad Van Trengle happen to do in the midnight dew when the Geffers' star is fifteen degrees from the azimuth. Garagon Affichette was pleased: the hyperscience of the Neuvanians had caused a revolution in fromaggiosynthetic techniques the likes of which had not been seen since the Bahallangonts had invaded Miesviries and insisted that the native strain of cows be cross bred with Dreyvwherl Givvidgeblyssthes, shocking the ordinarily conservative cheesewrights with such flavors as verruve, tressienta, and halpefarin, flavors that had been accidentally and carelessly bred out of the native Miesviries breeds by centuries of inaccurate bovine steadmanship. These days, verruve, tressienta, and halpefarin rich cheeses are commonplace, as imports from Miesviries are a constant, reliable staple of the neighborhood cheesemongers or grocery shop. But to such madmen as Garagon Affichette, the lack of borromago, fressaplunga, and eithne-shunyata cheeses was tongue-wettingly and swelteringly whetting his appetite for these bizarre flavors that had not been seen in a cheese in Caledon Te Tannoc for well over two hundred charbissiads. He purchased an engineered metafungus of the ascidiomyceles variety and deposited its spores in the collective subconscious of all cheese engineers for a hairswidth less than a kiloparsec away from the center of Caledon Te Tannoc. The spores grew into mycelial layers, penetrating id, ego, and the layered agglomerated of cheese making techniques in their minds, suffusing them with salivation for the earthy vapors of the borromago, the multifurcating blossoms of the fressaplunga, and the strange fires-of-emptiness characteristic of a good, redolent eithne-shunyata. Several months later when the cheese shops actually carried varragai, blenvrismafra, and zeitoro-kinesthetique cheeses, Garagon felt satisfied, so some of his more peculiar friends offered to vid him riding off into a fake nerf sunset, which he accepted, given how ludicrous it sounded.

a minimal effort

Darvauchies and Collogril devised a technique for estimating one's suburbane distance to the next chthonochrone using only a pair of rubber bands, a parsnip, and a (one, and only one) ten terahertz gloopfschein inversion diode while stranded on one of the Greater Valavian Islands after their ship beached itself on Yolladar and they were forced to swim the Berruthers Isthmus in search of food bearing isles. They were stranded for two weeks without pens, paper, computers, or abaci, and yet they managed to come up with a technique which was three orders of magnitude more accurate than the best secret government project at the time. Coincidence, I ask you, that the ship which upended itself on an ocean-beetroot was named after the Vice-Bleerongfast of Smutherington, Sar Vlartstak Binzoy, or that the manufacturer of the boat's primary capstan was Ovollochy Conspiracy-Mongerers, Federated?

angiotropy of the lesser darschellia levengitor zquid

Gathering the speleographic trophy cases and the butterbenjamins of Insaint Volvinsky of Ravars Cloordshire makes my meningocele varvid and tompeous: does the chrysapheous arrhengton of the blasmomeres insert itself into the sequence of charged dreams? Salazar, Banvaurvid, and the scimitar wielding duck-knights of Esserenga Green charge forth into analysis, with pens, paper, pencils, laptop supercomputers, and pocket quantum computers, ready to solve even the most intractable problems of transcosmic envobulation of the supernatant nickel triglycerides and banded nacreous gemstones and otoliths. Precess me daily foveal vice-quotes char my humility while bronco riding an untamed lambda expression and attacking a strange data structure with lance and vorpal blade.

twice a two tango for Lethe

Was it the tale of Artaxander and Alexoraganes? The gallium annealed swordsmiths from Temnellerophon and Apokritheon. Or of Eithne Eulalius and Nahehapes the Bristol-Shaker who defended the Sintered Statues of Corzellen from the Apists and their electromechanical steam impeller machines? Brigands and Apparition-Artists! Revolting isotopologues and crimminsmiths. Or Veitnar Rasalbalom, bearded, blind, and daft, wielding a buckycarbon blade at the entire 251st Platoon of the Great Syrevian Army during the Battle of Brontemps, in the ancient Wilzbonian wars? Nobody seems to remember the old times, and we find ourselves accosted by the conflicts of the age: these ancient scuffles find their ways into mythologues and countryside contentments, in books greatly scarred with age and non-acid-safe paper. The antitenebrous lilting of the treebirds over these battlefields reflects upon the gone-to-thusness which these fiercesome, ancient, and forgotten fighters now enjoy: we have forgotten their battles so that their fight would have some meaning: to remember would be to let a wound fester for centuries, so they are better as evanescent neutrino diffractions rather than echoing standing waves in the cenotaph of our collective subconsciousness.

hypersaturnian godfrothingly obvious passions of Galbadar Saint Schaessen Polyphorik

The Zrenthe Carrago and Mispthenga Raylarion reach full occultation when the prism engine is aligned contrary to the zenith at an angle of several picoradians astern to the terminator. If the slip-processor is stream enabled you may be able to turn the triangle gears (if they haven't completely corroded in the centuries of their submersion in a brine bath to keep them from sublimating -- one of the dangers of using triply-blessed osmium palladium gears anointed with the oils from the thukdam of Gyatsen Thaktun) to bring up the sighting scopes. If you're using one of the new models (say the J33 or J34 -- that are younger than five centuries old and weren't manufactured by Callagde, Eithvenreyd & Daughters) you may be able to extend the telescoping probability filtration gas by at least one ten thousandth of a torr if the weather is right. Older models will have rusty philosophy modules and the blindging oil may have rotted because the ampoules were sealed with wax and craspy instead of the annealed polyorganics and devolatilized bismuth core-sealers. Ranquine, Flernhague & Sons make a grap-jaggling motivic conductor with beeswax seals and gas-junction linkages which have been certified to be Indricotherium free to one part in 10^16th, and under waranteed up to a maximum of ten thousand discharges or totalized current amplification of seven orders of magnitude, whichever comes last. Industry insiders say that some of the Terappanese firms (Asinhopun Incorparated and quite possibly the Fraspalan Organization) are working on transjective joinscapings, but the fab processes are still too expensive to be put into mass production affording to the difficulties in working wih postnuclear matter and distended catnip containers.

metariboflavin burlesques make the frightened moisturizer blush

Eivenfleyd Garhec Neisteurberry saw the scar-charred fire ruins at Tolhec Point, across Yalver's Bay, near The Promontory of the Sterile Neutrino. It had been nearly eight thousand years since the Niemtahe people had occupied the shores of the Western Continent, with their bizarrely incomprehensible hypermathematics, and even stranger Planck and sub-quantum technologies. The Niemtahe people are extinct: archeaologists know little of their extinction event except that it was sudden and profoundly ordinary in the grand scheme of things. No, it was disturbingly, exorbitantly, and effervescently ordinary. Neisteurberry alighted her Langlands sextant on the local monodromy group to see if she could determine within a microradian the direction which the next Nymphalidae migration would come: the Question Mark (Polygonia interrogationis) and the Comma (Polygonia c-album) usually overwinter in the massive, green, Rungrhomb tree forests. (Eivenfleyd's biologist friends tell her that the Rungrhomb trees exude rare, highly volatile iridium metallolipids that are necessary for the survivial of the butterflies). Later that day, after taking tea with the local sherpa-analogues, she will examine Niemtahe fractal hieroglyphs on the buried buckycarbon slabs about ten meters from the outer ring of the fire ruins for evidence that the iridium deficiency in the butterflies was bioengineered by the Niemtahe for inscrutable purposes. It's well known (meaning an established fact by the study of Sellagio, Baker, and Brulvum) that the Rungrhomb trees were imported from the Isle of Zight, across the sea by the Watercress peninsula, and that it took the Niemtahe bioengineers at least five hundred years or so to breed a strain of them which would be fruitful and make Tolhec point verdant.

abnormal number news report

The purported (and most likely illegal) synthesis of an abnormal number by The Zelar Francis St. Robilliard for Absurd Numerics in Jezzy City, Old Colorado was reported to the St. Germanium News yesterday by an anonymous correspondent. Many laboratories, both licensed and not, have been seeking to synthesize abnormal numbers for some time now, ever since Jacopi Martin predicted that there was a number of diseases an abnormal number might be able to offer substantially more than palliative care. In particular, Wordbeng's Darned Thorny Psycheneurephrenia and Gossat's Pernicious Spleenosis would be completely cured with low molality solutions of abnormal numbers in saline. The same anonymous source reported that a test rabbit had been successfully cured of Lepine Polyfluorosis of the Gland of Martindale by an injection of similar composition.

high energy muons

The boredom of the palatine imperviousness is callahared by three Giardians: Lutvig, Narmilla, and Isaldrin. They have been given an imprimatur of the god Ogahec, the Night-Weasel of Surprises, to callahar the boredom of the palatine imperviousness for perpetuity, or at least as long as it takes to reprint the original edict in whatever the local language happens to be at the time. Being phantasmic and lemon-curry-howard isomorphic to complicated functions, these Giardians fear (or at the least detest) the Coming of The Great Iodophor, an iodine bearing deva with the capacity of bearing radiophorous emissions which will materialize as iodine atoms in the flesh of the three Giardians. What dictators of bad taste? What guardians of the Accordion of Doom! Why do we bother with collecting the nougat of the principal branch cut of these assgoblins? It's exactly this sorcery of misreasoning that we have to consistency check every one and a half millicycles and the Lvehn Mohaggle is not exactly best pleased. What's the use of dragging seventy metric tons of ultrapure germanium crystals fifteen parsecs if the recieving authority refuses to sign for it because of one lousy sodium atom accidentally lodged in the crystal lattice?It's exactly that sort of waffle-bendingly anality that cooks my hippocampus every time. Or those smegging long hauls in which the recieving party complains that my rig was just a little too shaky and the egg was damaged in transit: look, dude, don't get your mivonks in a knot, the egg was exposed to only one part in four octillion of the ship's momentum at most, and that's equivalent to beelining your sanctum sanctorum at not-the-smeg-all. Just because the Giardians are some major callaharers doesn't entitle them to blurgle maliferously about having violated some sacred covenant when you've just finished your eighteen kiloparsec jag to bring them some special nucleons and they complain that the shipment has been compromised by neutrinos. Unappreciative flonkwoodels.

tarnish the reputation of caarnforan

Scission-titers mark the border of the Wild Country, the mad mothers eschew the troubled daisy-counters at the edges of the Ragged Zones, with their espadrilles and lieutenants and the notochords and then the tonorous sighing of the excessively complex electronuclear equipment they have sworn an oath to protect from hyperaphids and other xylem-violating brigands. Vaporous contrails of pigment fly from the projectile anesthetic plants and must be protected against, because they will render even the most well protected technician unconscious unless they have the latest in microfilter gas masks and other biohazard equipment, because the pigmented gas vapors are indomitable in their perfusion and ability to take advantage of even the scantest porosity in whatever environment suits you bring to the Ragged Zones. Had I a zener diode for every time someone professed that their so-called specially engineered suit would protect them from the pigment gases, I would be a diodemonger living in Zokhveim spelunkingly wandering the streets saying /get your zener diodes here/ and eating my daily bread and soup daily with the chesswrights of Vruss and Mallabender.

The Hyperaphids of the Ragged Zones are steam driven automata that do have an electrical potential storage organ which is their stomach or heart or something, I'm really unsure about where it lies on that energetic spectrum, me not being a degreed thermodynamicist. This organ is discharged to resistance heat their boilers, which then circulate the steam necessary for their locomotian around to their articulation frames and limbs. But they don't get farther than the scission-titers, which form a (very loosely coordinated) natural antimechanical barrier that prevents the migration of the Hyperaphids into populated areas like Zokhveim and Fentap Rindge.

glucose fructose syrup

A tremulous jamboree: my iced coffee is waiting at the McVerzel station. I asked the coffeemongers to calculate my whizbang factor today, but I was busy with other ordinates and abscissions: did the leaf just stay on the tree or was it a homily? Truly, like some factored antennule of some robotic insect god I had a fervent request that had probably been lost in the queue: my cheese lost, my neckerwrights sandwashed, the color of fury seeping into the undergarments of suspicion, was I not about to take my corpuscles down to the beach and observe to efflux of fauna and flora during the tidal excesses? Blast! Not another cyclical enjambment of retold stories and carbonated fury. It's for this reason that the monsters of the lost land never return Henry Haschgellester's calls. I'm sure the futuristic cell phone marimba stories might be redressed if the unfactored supply of inert primes was to broadcast on a station that's well known. But scoring someone's probability toast like that might just give Ol' Hastoffle a case of the mighty indigestion: what was more important, the ellided material or the signal to noise ratio collecting nutsgooses on the corner of the river. Did Vazbolb Struggins not semaphore furiously during the end of the Ryvgahelis Campaign? Mutter me another way Miss Muskwaray, for I hadn't seen the telegram at the office and my radio batteries had suffused throughout the lower stone chasm of the nightgaunts.

If Chollongster had been present, I'm sure she would have quoted us a number of cheesy soliloquies and other symposia and consortia all in timbral harmony. Chollongster, of course, usually has nothing to do with us, calling us voozblongs and lumpgossuwongs, nasty epithets just designed to hurt where it hurts the most: in the inner mandibulae of our spleens.

breadmaker, breadmaker, make me a loaf...

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

getting my groove back

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

Fomalhaut informality

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

something unprintable

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

nothing of consequence

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

the doozy

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

not per text field

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

vagaries and vapidities

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

oggvollags

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

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.