Question the screamings of semimechanical dirigibles, do you? I've not seen such poor dart-selling since the Third Revolution, and quite frankly, I wish I was exorbitantly indifferent to it, but as things go I find myself brought to a dither by the feeling of distaste it generates in my heart. As any green-blooded Vulcan will tell you, it's not the taste of the plo-meek soup, but how the mechanical wombat explodes that's important. In-co-fucking-herent? Why yes, it's a smeared array of concepts and referents. That's what happens when some bloody antinagarjunaicists
decide to drop a level zero probability bomb on the center of Denver. Nasty piece of work, it. A small diameter seven centimeter sphere coated completely in black. Nasty bugger it was. Kind of went off with a 'whom' sound. One moment it was there, the next it wasn't. But that point was suddenly the epicenter of a cascading wash of chance. Atomic bombs just kill everything. Probability bombs reweigh chances. Messy quantum-mechanical machines. Anyway, where wasn't I? Oh right. So this wave of nauseating turbidity marches forth. In half a second, the entirety of Denver is underwater and its entirely population have been transformed into mer-people. Chicago became a refuge for three-headed people. Small towns in Michigan and Wisconsin had their populations transformed into butterfly-headed people. In short, it was a complete and utter mess, not readily suited to a linear history (or even to any kind of history at all)

Dissociated Press, Wilngefluru-on-Zyne, Muguary 28, Blobe-Year 209,109 of the Nyctophloon Calendar:

Today Eisensubramanian Sninglefort Radipans and Corporal C. J. Mloodfoord performed a sting on a series of Objectivist Memetics sweatshops in Snorglesbury. The kingpins would import high caste academics and other thinking persons (both sentient and sapient) from Mlanstruntistan, Dynmoe and Raldzunctria and force them to write ridiculous postmodernist prose and analysis for nothing (three wonzlos sterling a month!)

The conditions of the workers were found to be inhumane: Lunatic robotic rats were found to infest the gutters, feeding on the scraps of paper and electroradiographic emanations from the steam-driven computers on which the workers were forced to toil. The machines have been impounded and are currently being recycled at the District Computologist's recycling station/ Memetic purification tanks. The machines were brought in truckloads and scanned to see if there were any idiotic ideas.

The People's Thought Freedom Purity Party objects to this kind of heavy handed sterilization of ideas before the populace can think about them cogently and perform reasoned discussion on them.

I think, hrm, I don't know. I don't know many things, but in this day and age that's relative. I mean, here I am, with some fairly detailed knowledge of fonts, computers, aesthetics, and the world is foaming at its teeth about viral marketing, people suffering millions of miles away, and other people's various difficulties. And I'm supposed to care about it all? Again, I don't know. My atttempts to be explicit and precise with stating my problems have resulted in complete miscommunication. Sometimes I wonder if people need to have it tattoed on their actual brains in order to remember things. So I meander on my way and just pretend , or ignore all the persistent crap that I have to wade through. And hope that someday, somehow, this insanity ends,, or at least, is replaced by some more decent forms of insanity.

Recently the subject of protests of mathematics has languished as misguided protests of accurate biological education by stark-raving mad foaming at the mouth religious maniacs have flooded the newsprint, blogprint, webprint, and usenet.

In the year 39,019, several members of the Church of Violent Religious Belief held a demonstration at the grave of Alexander Grothendieck. They held signs saying that "Sheaves are satanic!", "Higher category theory corrupts the soul!", "Germs should be sterilized", and other assorted garbage which conclusively indicates a lack of higher neurological functioning. This demonstration was similar in scope and scale to last years violent desecration of the Benoit Mandelbrot Memorial Bar and Grill by crazed lunatics from the Church of Unquestioning Acceptance of Our Man the Boring, who burnt it to the ground.

A witness, Alyssa P. Hackerson, reported to the San Polyhedran Daily Modulus that "They were screaming "Fractals are the spawn of Seitan! Only Squares are true!", and "Dimensions are Integral", and "Hausdorff-Besicovich dimension can burn in Hell, and it does". They had to be the least copacetic human beings I've seen in ages."

One wonders how such horrors could happen in our supposedly sane world.

bringing in the bacon

The meditations of Dzun-Pa Mteixon are perhaps the craziest piece of nonsensica produced in the Lombasso Mysticism Skunkworks since A. R. Woncklenunger underwent spontaneous defibrillation at the hands of the Lord Catheter, the disinclined. The meditations come bound in a two hundred dollar jacket, and the gilded pages attest to the ludicrous expense invested in this project. The typography is terrible, and the frequent uses of illegal H-Q-F ligatures would suggest that it was produced in the typography sweatshops of Ontario. But, to the actual content of the text: nowhere have I seen more flagrant disregard for the righteous orgasm of the cactus in these lines. The first fifty pages pedantically describe a small pile of ash from a burnt leaf being divided into seven hundred and thirty five individual envelopes by a committee of fat, rotund men all named Lucius Cuisinart. The envelopes are subsequently mailed to drab corporate officers across the nation, with instructions that the ashes be spread in honor of "Lady Dymphna Mayhew the Third". Dzun-Pa's self exegesis of the ludicrous events set forth is that he wishes that there be a "French Philosophy", not anything French in particular, or even having the remotest connection to anything authentically French or any parodies thereof. He merely wishes to use the name for his own purposes.

The next fifty pages, in excruciating sentence after sentence, describe the history of a hydrogen atom through fourty million years of encasement in an ice crystal in deep space. Each sentence is identical, but of slightly different color and typeface, and the typefaces are scented. One wonders what utility going from deep mauve/Helvetica/cat piss to fluorescent orange/Computer Modern Roman/myrrh has when every sentence reads "and the hydrogen atom remained gleefully bonded to george, my cantilver".

The last section is entitled "Woogly-Homology" and is reproduced in its entirety below:

"Mr. Woncesflas, my cognomen is quaking? Have I not energized the usufruct of Zen? I purchased the National Zen Republican Calendar of 2003 and the National Libertarian Zen Republican Calendar of 2004, but unfortunately the centerfolds for the National Zen Democratic Calendar of 2008 contain naked pictures of whiffleballs engaged in immoral activities. I must protest and instead burn my Zen jockstrap and my Zen underwear, and protest the Buddhist police. Perhaps Zen torture will be employed. Perhaps Zen phonemics will be used. Perhaps my normal human rights won't be violated, but my Zen human rights will be ripped apart by a monkey-controlled mechanical behemoth! Will I be ripped asunder by the robotic Poincare homology three spheres which the National Mind Control Agency employs on the unsuspecting citizenry, or do I sound like a zen maniac taking Zen objects and Zen morphisms? It is likely in the modern day and age that maybe Wink Martindale is the Deity, and only then will I achieve Samadhi."

Remarkably, the Meditations is one of the few books in existence to incite book burning at departments of English Literature at Universities across the country.