…as people with chronic diseases when they have despaired of ordinary remedies and customary regimens turn to expiations and amulets and dreams, just so in obscure and perplexing speculations, when the ordinary and reputable accounts are not persuasive, it is necessary to try those that are more out of the way.
These are sullen worts to bane our hunger, and how can we but think of Sulla — I wield my fells to lope de varga — without recalling the tower of wood which he could not set afire, because Archelaus, governor of the town for King Mithridates, had it plastered all over with alum, as is related in the Attic Nights and Cellar Days, doctated by Freddy Barbarossa as he slept beneath a hill?
If he ain’t awoke yet, he sleeps there still, still as baby Jesus in the goddess’s cocoon, he sleeps like cutty kaiser, ninesheets to the moon, and dreams of a maiden all forlorn, who was humped by the bull with the crumpled horn. When you find yourself in times of trouble, Mother Fin will waken you.
We speak of the perishable priest who spoke in parabolas, the frightful hair to his brother’s wheelchair of fortune, who saw everything in shirley temple black and vanna vanna white, known as the wiled man of the pomposities, alias Mr. Mississippi, a bit port player at the hot dog theater. He squandered his birthrate on a messy cottage and a heap of splif peas. He creased his samovar with a scimitar and tossed a credit card salad.
O my, o my ozone’s got a hole in it. Buzzard on line.
May I cut in, said the painter to the wall, with her foot in his mouth. I recognize yr user interface. I’ll seer yr bacon, and raise you a stink and a hay. A bona dea keeps the anchor awake. Yes we have no null modems.
I’d like you to meet my niche. Suckle me choppers at Pa’s moll and pick a peck of pox malt, apocryphal of rye. Ask me no algebra and I tell you no lie. No stone’ll be unturned, nor thrown out at first. Singasing of Sack’s pence, fractal Jack in the pluton green, and yet those cratons keep rolling along.
All smiles, she is a honey. Her midden name is Sioux Saint Marie. She had Alberta plates and Saskatchewan saucers. She released her latest record last week. On her own label. I saw her with my icon lens. I saw her Québec cups on smutty’s flat as a puncake hearse, where all women of irresistable attraction end up flipping aphrodite’s griddle-engineered at great cost by Cestus B. Deflowern. Palm him off as a lip reader. A stood up karmic. When the testicle comes to a head. In his cock boots and cunt cap.
What is meant when we say, that a man farts frankincense? Die kunst der loot. And that’s the hole’s barn of wax. How do you make a whormone? Dopamine a monocock, a leaned on, Princess Die Cot. Here on the piece river.
I see by yr ID that yr a general systems manager for a large multinational boilermaker, able to leapfrogs in a toller bond, but what I wanna know is, are you a strate arrow?
When she said, Wooden yew like to no, I could see my file structure branching, taking the inner passage thru the sans of time-life.
Our hostess tonite is Clara Both Loose, wife of prefect sergeant St. Jean Fillup Booth, and a helluva nice girl besides herself. She’ll be talking down to us from her upstarts apportment. Now it’s over to you Clara.
Thank you, John. Our question tonite is, what are the three ways to speed the transfer of information?
Telephone — pan to a peek at Johnny — telegraph — pine to a pole — and tell a woman — pun to a poke. And now, back to Johnny O’Bacon, caught as he is between a quantum and the cosmos.
In the news tonite, Canute Kanockanee rebuffed his flatterers in the Perishing Gulf by commanding the waves to stand still, and even the wacs couldn’t budge. Too stuffed to be farcie. Music by Les Six and his pointerpacked paulbearers. Great guns.
And now a word from our sponsor, Fearless Fosdick’s bug shepherd service. Keep your bowels open. Keep your ears to the bible. Expect acid snow in Chapellizod.
This I heard the stranger relate. You and you friends may make of it what you will.