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.

(2^8)-1

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

edgy

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

untitleable

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

finish this post

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

uttered commentary

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

marketing ideas to me

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