untitleable

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

finish this post

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

uttered commentary

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

marketing ideas to me

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

bpdauhsgkfdhjeee

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

reports of the chirugeon

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

Do you have a Rhyme Machine?

of forgotten dreams

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

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

a fire in the sky

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

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

the mastery of the ghost

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

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

charged tardigrades make the adaptation easier

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

the artist has a bottle

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

Transfinitesimal archprofundum

Doctor Wengzvoknow E. Writheleigh declared that he was unaware of the declension of the nostrils, a bottom or a box of sulphides, a paradoxical extension of his favorite wallaby, a binary misaccomplishment or some type of electromechanical approximation that had to be carried in thousands of parts ofrom here to there, a kind of citrus scented iguana bee. Dr. Writheleigh had a mismanaged series of notes that he had collected throughout the years, all written in disorganized fashion with a poor rabbit-calligraphy pen and a pair of quantum calipers. All with a jazz-hand and a razor-tongue, he accomplished much in his stay at the Craihghar, a plenipotentiary gas-barge or a wullins or a mustard god or an insect-telegraphist might have a tourniquet and then communicate with the gasgrieves of the collective misunderstanding: sighted by the plenitudes, Dr. Writheleigh had declared that, upon pain of peace, "The basso profundo of the ghostgas leaves me not discontented. I am the gas giant of the rhomb! Oh, my plenty lissencephalopathies requires more than I can manage in some type of half-time", amongst other less thoroughly thought out epithets and swears to the Bananamatter god. Like someone with a charged muon might pass for a countryside inspector or a galactic tollbooth operator with cigarillos and a lapsed subscription to /American Fundamentalism Coffeeklatsch/ slowly smouldering because the fifth of the toke had some kind of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons just laying about. Or else. Or someone completely different with no relation to the Queen of Belgium in the year -130,304 R.Q. (Reliquary Quotient), to misunderestimate my nuclear approximations, a fundamental nutjob with a preferences for isothiocyanate snoobies in the back room and perhaps having a c3po moment with the font aristocrats before the third reel shows, and the networks that we rely on have nothing to fund their badly tuned communcations and communiqués.

other stories from the righteous elephant

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

za?

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

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

seething fumes make the turnip tangled

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

some necessary complications of open-mind surgery

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

charging the fortress.

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

nothing ventured, nothing gained

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

just something to pass the time.

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