Of all the firstwater nobs of the second order ever eaten alive by mice, none was more differentiable than Bishop Hatto, who by the way sported a convincing moustache. A number of poor harvests during the dork ages compelled the Bishop to herd the peasants into a barn and set whole shooting match on fire.

They are like mice, only good to devour the corn.

An army of mice subsequently attacked the Bishop, drove him up a wall, and polished him off.

There’s another one the English won’t get.

The Latin dictionary found among the remains suggests scholarly inclinations. Cross yr eyes and string the matrix.

Then there was the soothsayer who died of laughter at having outlived the predicted hour of his demise.

My own trouble began Tuesday. I was headed for the garage to get a shot of O2. By all vector gauges I have the spin of half a weekling. How did I know the Easter bunny had come? Because of the snickers in my ears. Whispered by what I thought were my brothers in larmes to my sisters in lay. Pass me the knock out drops, I’m drenched to the half shell. Steamed in bed, animal to animal, crooning crybaby songs over Evelyn’s keel. She was a mobius stripper at the Klein Bottleneck. Who could desiphon her frumious rosetta bud?

Transplanted into the psychopompic vernacula, you could say I ran in native mode to free myself of the combines of investigation. I stopped at the lightbench to trace up some rays. In came the message. Cursors, tinfoiled agleam.

Beta Decay Central to Nuclear Burning. The Italian navigator has landed in the new world.

Myth america I loan to see you. Fly yr flagel at half staph on doupeltime. I pinched myself to see if my chips were rad hard. Discreet is my muddle name, but what in hell is all the Christian nomanclatter?

You look familiar, but I can’t replace yr face.

My father was a one-lunger poised at top dead center. His father before him was Black Jumbo. My mother was a plutonium blonde. Noticals aslanging, fantom fighters phlying, they evolved by jerks. Bateau ivre. Yea verily tho I walk thru the wallet of the shawdo of Urano I will fear no mushroom clouding my cranston. Tho they leadeth me by still detectors and maketh me lie by corporate coffers, with enough shovels you can dig where I’m coming to.

Pluck yr magic twanger, Froggy, and hold him in escrow. He’s got his stations of the wires crossed on the way to Boot Hill. Sircharge him with violating Hubble’s Law. Read him his columnist’s manufesty, Mickey Mantic. Drain him, Bookie. Ignorance is its own excuse.

Head crash. As anybody who knows nobody knows, the missing dark matter is composed of dead brain cells. Tubular bells I hear. In one’s ear and out the others.

Remember to fall back on polynomial time when it’s neither daylight nor dark. Spring forward to exponential time when it’s all hands on foot. During the blind man’s balmy holoday.

O captain mercaptain, sulphur us not the little children.