Nichomachean Ethics

The tickler is not tickled.
— Aristotle

e come. i come. o come. You come now that Matta, now that Matta Hairy is in full groan. Come now, o superman, come down Lois Lane. She’s loved by the half bad. Knock the living clay. He’s half feared by the good, for the good, of the good. On the national grid in vain.

Some compared them to Maid Marrying and the Sheriff of Nothingham, in the county of Wheresthebeef, in the burrow of Groundhog. But none of them was old enough to support a beard at spawning time when the salmonella voices bloom.

Put some English on the bawl. Yes, mine furor.

In the felt branches and the garment district, the whisper was, if pants wrinkle in the crotch like a smile, cut the curve. If pants wrinkle like a frown, raze the debtors’ prison.

Oder in the cortex, the judge is going bline. Suffered a severe deficiency of ozone before he could so much as lift a fingerprint. Giving the bum rush to the macrame rearum. You won’t miss the wasser on Palm Sunday this Easter, man.

Once upon the time there was a fish on teevee. Man says, look at that fishy, sishty pounds.

Pan to woman turning over her shoulder. Back at the newsroom, the anchorman chattered. She blussed like the religious woman who had two men a nite. She turned out to be nothing but skin and barns. Titus and Assam.

As for him, he was cot in the backscatter of the information explosion. His history’s in a nuts’hell. He’s hid behind his villan’s moustache since before vaudeville, but venisoon, by gum, by walpurgis knockt at the last, like a mighty hunter on a snowmobile, pursuing his pray to the point of conversion, he’ll be blost in the bewilderness.

I guess I should know. I know as much about atoms as onions. After all, and after all is said and done, and after all is said and done and gone, atom is all I is. And the eve of destruction.

Over the river and in the sky, flying blue angels, in a fragrant meadow, now I lay me, down.

We enjoyed your ruins. Whom were they collected by? Guideon’s? Then roll me a smoke. And with the girls be handy.

We saw in the paper the other day that drugs are making it impossible to tell the fucking maniacs from the northern population, except by their slang and cockeyedness. Celibates inevitably develop a prostrate condition when confronted by a real looker in the darkroom. For my last testicle, I will all my intoxicants to Shape Spear, when I succumb to the succubus.

The facility will be the hub of a nationwide computer network, called the National Test Bed. Its mission? Simulating the response of a SDI C3I system to a nuclear attack. Custom chromosomes courtesy of the Defense Nuclear Agency.

Syntax error. Bus phase error. Core dump failure. The bigger the hands, the slower the clap. Snicker at my personality defects, will you? The cut me a piece of yellowcake and we’ll all count down.

Imagine, if you will, Einstein and me — call him Al, call me if you can — sitting on a lifeboat on the beach, waiting for the quantum mechanics to renormalize the wave function so as we can take her for a spin. Wait till the Americas’ cusp, we’ll whip the pants off those young whispersnappers. Such is the lore of the high and mighty, since the daze of your, when they ruled the kingdom like as if they were frying a small fish. By keeping their billies foal and mine empty. By focusing on that first infinitesimal, they were able to get a shave and a haircut, two bits.

Then came the days when they could get three boxes of twentytwo shorts for six bits. Enough to last a country boy a season, until spring when a farmer’s fanncy turns to welding. If the barrel’s crooked you’ll need more shorts.

Time will tell, mark my words and remember this after you’re dead and gone, that consciousness is an illusion, and that you and you and you, Ulysses S. Useless, and all your coho, will have served your purpose. Why should a critter that begs to differ get new genes? Someone’s in the kitchen with DNA on the new frontier.

Memoryclips the peaks and troffs. Trons. For the life of me, I can’t remember the, the last time.

Blank user level. Type clear. When I hear that train a-rolling, I get a hunkering to chow down and rent me a workstation. Produce some hard copy. Play a little eyeball on the visual field. The farmer takes a wife. Plowing with his hefner.

Buddy, how’re you fixed for blades?

Punk ice surrounds the crematorium. Rubbings in graveyards. Clavicords papaya. One winday, when naut was calm, I herd the breezeway whisker my name. When they begin the begeanning, the big bhang.

Meanwhile, back at the pituitary, the standard model was being popped on the clutch. Too much slack in the playblack. Elementary, my charmed quark. When we boot the gears to local reality, gravel may tunnel through a waterproof gumboot. Strumming on the old bankroll and singing fee fie fofumbli-eye-o.

Aboard Yacht Cathy, crossed wires in waterbeds shocked mouths meeting. My lips are sealed your Highness. A naked man is surfing on the back of my shirt. His prick is hanging out. The boy across the river always stares at it. Bone up on your skills before you get scalped by his scalpel. The future, my son, is in operating systems. Why just last week a bibliography of neural network references appeared on disk. It’s been in the news all over the country. Everybody says the meat doesn’t have the taste it used to.

Us right atomic, dead lost nuclear, behind moon big ear do happen, hard control says. Egg hundred and god apples sleep working behind the hidden nose. Corn found yam. Happy messenger crossed ice horizon. Fear friend. Rise dancing naturally. Bellow to a different zipper. Women flew through peeling. Cannon baller blows coordination.

Lois Lane said of a person with a weak bladder, he’s got the jimmy riddles. Out piling ties near the ditch by the road, out among the jimpson where the boys ain’t mowed.

Geological writing in a lapidary style is just an extravagent fad, but if it tickles the os humerous, or as the prelats would quip, me funnybone, then let the nights tripper go off the deep end. Like the the aitch man, he casts his parls before swingernon.

Engaging in the complicated behavioral and physiological processes needed to bring together gametes from distinct individuals, and possess the elaborate genetic machinery involved in producing recombination between the maternal and paternal genomes during the production of these gametes, the biologists wondered if it wouldn’t be simpler to engage in some harmless mode of vegetation.

The astronomers replied, I feel, i feel, i feel, just like the morning star.
You and whose army?
Me, IG Farben, and Zyklon B.

At the democratic convention in Alantis, police blew up a bag of apple juice. The facts of the drought eventually soaked into the head of the secretary of agriculture, who was was in the next room plowing with his heifer.

The moat jus, say the mute ants, pour l’amour. On the good ship — make that, on the other side of Mars — where the women smoke cigars. Last cow for breakfast. We get the travel grant for medical help, and all we see is cops on the highway. Why ain’t they downtown cleaning up the Indians? We’re afraid of terroritsts in the common market.

Did this occur just before Mount Everest, where they have the faces?

It’s too balmy for atomic balling when the caissions go rolling. When worts came home to roast. The Day the Dennis died, preluding the Jacokbennian revolution.

Shin tangle and stumble weed notwithstanding, I simply must have your source code. Life is a fractal in hilbert space, doing the darwinian two step, an infinite series of strange attractors yawing towards chaos. Sixty nine factorial is just under a googel.

Thank god the kids were in bible school the morning I shot the dog. The BMD system suffered a catastrophic failure. She died blowing up a balloon. She bursted her brains and died instantly.

I was down drawing water that evening, solving the mystery of the universe. From the point of view of foreign objects, we definitely have to recommend against going barefoot.

Battle him of the republican, to lay rubber by hymens lamp through the porthole of our berth. The transit of Venus through the stable of Vulcan. Any port in a storm. The vortex of her triangle. Out of the night when the full moon is brite. Here was a starlet, a femme fatal, who could project two points of her personality. The streetwalkers of heaven are paid with gold.

Just about now Doctor John von Faustio, the think-tank voyager, is climbing aboard his ark de triumf, which if it comes on line is capable of producing forty billion elementary particles per year and can easily provide enough missing mass to close the universe. Forty years ago he met his wife at the roller rink in downtown Canada. He’s made an airtight case for the existence of humidity.

Now someone’s lost alone, out among the great congreves of color, between the palpable shifts of seen and acts of congress, in the great hole out of which w

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