ex.: "I truly believe that great concert music, that is, great classical music, played properly, is part of the great Transmission. The problem being, of course, that truly proper performances are so very rare. And, of course, in great jazz, and whatever else. Thank god, then, gentlemen, for modern recording technology!" -- Barnum Bailey



C'est l'Ennui!

got gaw?

< # oddbloggers + >

knock a garage

Hooch hounds, no adversaries, talk about clicking houses talking! no adversaries. "I won der what the King . ./Iz-whiss-ling . . tonight?" It's the la bamba, again.

DID YOU KNOW THAT, FIFTY YEARS AGO TODAY, Orval Prescot sounded off about the something of the new book, written by a RUSSIAN of all people, Lolita?

today we kickoff a new feature: DID YOU KNOW THAT, FIFTY YEARS AGO TODAY ...?

Fish neckbones, microscopic reality checks,
what is this? Unconscionable gibberish?
The conscious disease of venerable tropical islanders,
with false eyes of petrified umbery resin.


Fish neckbones, microscopic reality checks,

"It may be of no concern to the Jetsons, but it seems to be falling out of command. Here I am again, not quite sure why. I know I'm violating the calendar." -- Barnum Bailey


The flotsam waif + jet-strap rider
explained themselves
into fishbox fellatio.--
a bomb went off outside.--

The blackboard + riddled testmony
explained themselves
into a space beneath a terra cotta stoop.--
the gringo ran into a heavy boar hound.--

The boggle-gobbler + expressionist mistress
explained themselves
into a Cheshire sexual manoeuvre.--
the bogeyman crashed somewhere in the Andes.-

The sage elder + crashed bogeyman
explained themselves
into a priest and divinity pairing.--
there was a winter eclipse.--


A credo is being written in an apartment:
"It's day to day; day imparts knowledge unto day, I don't feel like performing.
I get tired of looking at the same thing maybe. Shafts of light: the same ones every day.
There's a great borderless nation of apartment-dwellers."

It's some heaven that I'm in.
My best friends, -- let's make ourselves heroes.
It is some heaven, yes, with chocolate coffee.
While climbing a mountain on Vancouver Island,

I became lost, some distance behind my friends.
I called them on the cellular (one of the most
beautiful of the alien words) and hooked back
up with them. I was saved by modern -- ...

"Tiberius is got caught with his pants down," ...
"Me don't know what inning it is," ...
"Things exist as I see them, more intensely," ...
"Looks like the Sems are defeating the Rippers," ...

Pizza. These kids, these kids are talking
(at this point there's a muffled explosion outside)
about the word riposte, in the mean South.
Pretty effed up, how things could turn out this way.


"Today in class we learned when to say no." -- Barnum Bailey


With feces in every corner,
the coronary hair deposit has a golden ape.
Some nations in the warehouse, some behind the drapes,
children have taken over, turning around to say, "I'm so cool!"

You better get away from there
if you want to get away with your shobogenzos intact.
Some nations in the warehouse, some behind the drapes,
the leaders mostly generalissimos with sequined capes.

The children sitting on a hypodermic needle.
The children don't use match-sticks.
The children have a phenomenon on
and there are futile patches.


This is a slogan used in advertizements for a bologna log product. You can get it at gas stations. The commercial was set in a lumberyard. It's ridiculous, and I won't describe it.




Wanting no more to put the contradictions in a giveaway pile,
there's no pride in every line. Very slowly moving the cat onto the floor,
step in another pile. One of the many who could trump Abe Lincoln all the time at something.


They could decentralize entities, making gods of men.

3. A GAS

A concertante, a conference, a confederate, a consent-rate, a concert-rate.

arlgit! The police are coming to get me! NECESSARY BACKGROUND: "Ooh yeah man, that the goooood shit." --Whitacre Spinnaker, in the short film, Feeding Guacamole to the Dog

Lapplanders have hot flashes, grieving Grimmelman salutes an immelman, inerrant and net-futile, okay that should take us right into:


work. inorganic numbers. that what we left to.
doubloons. dreck. things in the outhouse at the fireman house.
the word dei hidden in uncle the shrinking shrimppotter.
that work was lent to us for twelve dollars. twelve dollars
if you can believe it. it was two thousand twenty one.

They found my old dealy and her bracelets.
They fed the dog chili. Ooh, it made a mess.
Whitacre painted a crucifixion.

Whitacre's dad looked square at him and said,
My god, wipe that off, seeing the Lamb's blood
on His chin. Where are you going with that,

with that religious stuff. it is two twenty.
we got work in the shrimp cannery.
but uncle arrange for us monkay off.
whitacre save our lives once.
kiss us and our warts falls off.

This is taken by Dan, of a Message so cryptically Styl'd, Re: $20,000 per month, guarnatede! and runs in its Entirety:

We wot be fearce and blamin' headstrung
You want fleece for biddin' lickdon
Nobody lefts my sheep the skales no more.

It is an Old One, from Palestine. You can all hear him saying, "Sure, thanks," can't you, Folks? (The Audience titters. Berle bows and carries on. The PREDICATE FINALYSIS, which is a Repeating Revolver, a constant Ring of Musicks, follows the closing Parenthesis.)


a forward stance no matter how tight its lacing.)
Now I'm inspiring everybody.
No nasal dancing,

Chasing the bottle, the la bamba,
Every false imprint, and the dictionary,
Hoarding rhetoric. (Set your mind in

ANOTHER FINALYSIS: Sigmoidal Quackare writes, as an invocation to a meandering short story nobody can read more than once, writes everyone's a winner, which we are happy to say we can print without correction. Look to Toadex's trailing vines for finalysis contemporare!

Were you actively trying
to get it inside my eye?
Show me an abortion and vial,
and I'll show you a corpse inside a copse.

The forest is purpling and swelling.
A tear got baked on the lens.
At least I can still munch on the shells
and slip the yolks in my purse.

At the levy, those goddamned mites
kick in a rickshaw, swing the town.
Because I knew it would hurt
and I couldn't say it, slam the brakes.

The finalysis and award is

framed, by Cedric Sharp

You can look on the street,
So far below, with disgust.
Debate the validity--debating the validity--

Whatever: just don't do it.
Welcome to Your Very Own
Pictionary. The man with a

Space ship up his nose,
Lying on the sun-bleached carpet,
Trying to get a tan.

probably it's too late, & you're already numb--- but if not, here's the prophecy presented by Bob Dylan in The Basement Tapes--- realize that "line" means ballot and "clothes" means chad, and vicey versey. And if one by "means" meant symbolizes.


The rosy-cheeked moles
knew how to do what?
when the manoeuvre was uncurtailed
and Jeeves swallowed the mash.
I am soaking up a curtain,
two by two flourishes,

my foot's a potato
and a ham is my leg.
Everything's turned to meat;
but wherever I go,
mashed potato dreams
get me by.

In the final episode, Jeeves swallowed
the minnow and bought Bobby a kite.
Again, fidgety word-equationeers
break through to dark.
Filthy minnows in the thermometer?
God, you'd think everyone's crazy!


The first word of the undecode message from q w, titled folds, reads, "i" which becomes a problematically repetetive word in these Implications, so diluted and impossible to interpret. Next is "was." It came out of the abyss, forsaking problematicality. Next is what "i" "was" doing: "trying," then there's a case of the hiccoughs: "to," "stretch," and "the," each showing forth its own forsakenness in clear fashions. Next we stumbly bumbly tumbly be around the "world" with cushions for seated mister "intertextually" and his band of Swedish tumblers "tonight." Here is the first of the two spooky reappearances of "i." Then it's "held," implying to most of us feathery headdresses. Then "for," tanking for the midshipment whilst "all" the shore-huggers fit their "things" into a "constant" struggle against nomads "and," "'this'," denoting the rubber cubules. Next is "is." A question, "what," and we've barrelled into the home stretch. Again the resurrection for ghastly death of the first person singular pronoun, which is unbearable, irrepetitive. Finally, with "got" we see into what mire we have all sunk. Onomatopoesis. 'Glop!' The entry has been Finalized. Friends, let us pray.


Just remind him to leave as unreasonable a message as possible.

Really, oh, I'd say it's just about anything except sliced bread.
I'm lightning, and don't know the reason why.
Hems are discolored, ruby gimlets burst into flame.
The seams bust, the garment is un-seamed.
Can you send me to corral the cattle?
Marble beakers lie by the road, unconsumed.

Full of beef juices unconsomme'd,
fried bean curd and red steer bread,
heads of lambs and lips of cattle.
Ernesto asked the matron, "Why,
when in person Litonia seemed
so easy," his heart would flame

with avarice and the flaky flame
of diligence left unconsumed
the stitches seamed
over the surface of dried bread
loaf and why
my cattle

and his cattle
lit up like strawberry and juniper a-flame,

likely to be in season, seemed
likely to piss off enough cattle
to stave of the cored-of-bread
death-spittling flame,
which had left bread unconsumed
for centuries, and was a sore loser. Why

would he, why
had she seamed
the briefs unconsumed
to the patches of cattle
from beyond the Georgic bread

zone whilst Ernesto wondered why the splotchy-assed cattle
left their bullets seamed in bonnets fed the flame
that left apricots unconsumed whilst devouring the bread?

"I'm all for getting rid of
the electoral college, but
wouldn't that mean we'd
have to dig up Samuel J.
Tilden and make him
president retroactively?"
That Onion, churgle churgle snorff.

And I would also like to point out, one more time, that ALL FINALISTS' ENTRIES WILL BE FINALIZED. Got me? Let's not get out of control here, folks.

Fans chomp! The tiger rises! Logic beacons would point out with inveterate high wonkery that the below means, too, that you may wind up smoking NO dope and sending in a very very short essay. Chumps Lose, Chimps Peruse! Carry on!

Where are you, o dynamic deuce of a cat?
Someone found him plugged into a Tandy, rioting on his lonesome,
shouting about a dope-smoking contest on the internet.

That's right, folks, it's the dagmar chili dot com very very short essay contest, rules of the contest is, smoke ezzzzzzzz much dope as you can get your little green men into, send in results to the result of the finalists arriving and being finalized to KNOCK A GARAGE ()at left.

() knock a GARAGE ()
() pobox tv indurtsy ()
() pobox working ()

Cheesy tv ad for it (in Detroit and LA exclusively running): Mary and Tom in front of a buffet, smiling cheesily, Tom frowns suddenly and says to Mary, "I'm not sure I sent it to the right place!" Mary opens her mouth wide in surprise and they both turn to the camera and, beaming, shout "Recount!"

"They put a chinese elder on a frosted sidewalk with an iron rake for support. When they saw him realize that he might, you know, wind up going this way, they sounded a Klaxon. The iron rake fell and clattered.
"Curled red leaves
"followed up
"a cowl of wind--"

The old shepherd told Craig, our mountaineering adventursome hero, "-asphyxiated by the finest available crystal gift language, that figure exceeds expectation. Hoarse? They went through and actually acted. Someone took this. He brought it to the mill. The whole thing out. Some digital animation on. The engineers pondered over it: "While shaving the top of that, here are some awesome captions: 'No Sale.' ... 'I wanted a the sausage, the turtle nipped Dial.'

"An historically-accurate showdown, not stirring. 'It's a code!' one said, 'It reads, (just word-pulp and some divisive weasel's stilt) the first few words, "egg have sage"...' Tricks. Instead, it's just like 'while shaving the ...' To another it held 'spigot'. Noone ate sausage, the turtle nipped Dial. Could they agree on the right answer, though a few (at a mean of 124% of a showdown) of them briefly touched on it? Everyone low the sticks burned spoke in this very stick-quieted tone, then gave up." He watched a wingawing tree capture an elf from across the great canyon in the rust-red land.

"My thoughts exactly," muttered Craig. "I wonder about your lamp-slain town. I kiss all the horses. Too much law in my lenses, I see it as just." Another wingawing tree made its way up the cliffs while something brayed.

After a few minutes of contemplation, he added, "Historically, ... historically, it's false." The town had been coughing up mud for decades. Nobody could work the chainsaw after the mayor died, so nothing got built. They rented steamshovels for a while, but never got around to anything.

Brothers "fixed" their Christmas gifts, fathers blew their bated breaths in public, and mothers had cramps due. Sisters were out of the question. So children know it. Craig pulled the lambskin over his head, and said, "Damned town if there ever ... but I'm a jujube daddy, and I'll do what I please!" The unlikelyhood of it all-- how did the shepherd know that?

these (via alamut) reminded me of the old doggerel---

“A handful of Meow Mix, a charred hemlock stick,
Forty bricks and three pounds of porcupine dick,
A fermented steak, nine gallons of corn,
A few metric tonnes of Granny Smith Porn,
A laser-cut tungsten bejeweled Rubik’s Cube,
And a double-size case of Stu’s Super Sex Lube—-
Where did you find these?” she asked with a grin.
I said, “I don’t know,” and I finished my gin.
“Let’s put it together,” she said, and we did,
And that was the night we conceived our first kid.

YOU'RE A SICKO, AND you eat watches. You keep a kimono with the hem clean. You rake the lawn when no-one else cares. Mister Zbelitz could list seventy-seven reasons to prefer cheese fries to the regular, but you know the ratings like the back of your hand. God leaps up, shouting, "I do, I do!" No accounting for it, but indeed, if you clap your hands fast enough, your money woes might come out in the wash. "A computer does not perform an illegal activity." But a plum-bob can kill Mister Zberlitz? Quit clowning. It's more than the surface can bear. I've been busy at the fabric shop. As the cabin continued to denature, someone cooked up a marshmallow-date dessert. Spy on nothing: it's a terrible suggestion. Did you hear about the beer that Aunt Henry brewed? Sheriff got hold of it, ganged him eighteen hundred pounds. Mister Zberlitz, fresh from the hangdriers, busted in with a deafening pop. He sailed over the ocean, and he sailed over the sea. He threw light over the waters, and he made you, them, and me. Mister Zberlitz liked truffles, so the likeliest maidens brought him some. "Here I go/To Acapulco," a hoarse and tiresome dog sang. The high gauge was a good assessment of the vocal range. Mister Zberlitz shot it, and thus made a mess of the parking lot. I can't keep clicking on it. Uh-oh! Who's he? Who, me? I didn't apply decision science to my every moment for so many years to wind up like this. The bear went over the mountain, and all he found were dry shrub? No: it was, in fact, land just as fertile as the land back home. To the wind-up bear who went up like this, Mister Zberlitz hands money, fast enough to sting flies. It's a common Tucson gesture, the bear finds. But all these pools, for the denatured desert-rats, ... what's brewed in these pools? These, pools of marshmallow plum puddin, stretched range effects, and marble eggs arrived from China, serve as clocks for the native Weslandleyers, reflecting the appropriate ideograms onto the bottom of a diving-plank. Back to you, God: "I do, I do!" Account, additionally, for "Acapulco" and "Zberlitz". Leave not the last word, "untouched". Arguing over inevitables? Proud, well, they broke the bank on the last word's account. The phone in Mister Zberlitz's plane blinks, but he's not there to get the message. What division of the science company did we put him in charge of? The bear begins looking mighty, the leaves slap everyone silly, the badgers beat the hedgehogs at Twister, the gallant, rubber-stethoscope-wielding farmers and mayors join in the parade, the statements have all been made multiply, the metal baubles are checked in at the border, Aunt Henry reappears from hiding, Edmond G Smith arises also, created by junctions of this and that, the carpenter serves the restauranteur, the guns distributed, the crowds singing. I phone in the board's recommendation. And the nation's congressmen join in the chorus: "Leave not the Last World untouched."


We were in Lhossa Abzo about twenty times that year.
We heard the town crier about twenty times that year.
Away, we ate pickled snails, with painted corn-wedges,
and taught the falcon how to act.


Now that the sounds is centered
why wunt you wait for the shepherd, Frank?
In the fiery pits of hell will you burn forever.
There will you eat lice and vegetables.


Drawling on and drooling on her,
the sermonizer had lifted his collar
from the suite of Dr Bronner,

and placed her dowry's final dollar
on "Salty Lucy"(twelfth place finish).
She drew a lawyer out to holler

the charge she found her husband "thinnish,"
cheated on her with "some spiral
lady" and on top of it all, didn't always finish.

Something flowed through the veins, chiral
certainly, but how? "On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner, ..."
the chained elk howls. It's viral.



"Hurry-up time, Joan! Let's movey-movey!" --Barnum Bailey


To notice these specific things, specifically,
was not a good sign. His hands stank, ultimately.
I'll give you credit for being the first to see it
before the bust. Oh no, not him! He'd make a
ruin of it. "You're a superstar/You'll eat pickled
gar," just hashing out these clichés repeatedly.
I agree, that would be the most useless information
possible. It was only seven minutes to the witching
hour. Male chauvinism dictates the microphone's
placement? Hit me with a placemat, but don't take
me to court. That upstart stepped up to the red, white,
and blue podium and begged Lord Jesus for mercy.


What gets me, is when the out-of towners come in
with their freight-loads of crap, and they expect us
to do such and such. It's just childish, it's exasperating.


It struck me (a) that each must have been said before the tour, (b) that Torless Barscam was an anagram, and (c) what algorithms and eponyms have in common. A grace-belit day at Gracias Highway Farm. Saying, "I'm sorry to hear that," mercy sakes, it's a shepherd's hemhaw. He knows what it means when people talk about motion pictures sprouting from musical tracts.


the one doesn't have an epitaph

it scalded them all---- the breakdancing and the baloney sports. Blondie checked the washerfluid and came up nulled. Even Rover felt a little dull. Sprouted feathers and planted doubt. "Wound up in the parking lot, counting nickels?" the hopeful asked keenly. No consolation to offer them, for Rover died on the 18th Jan., and has been pushing daisies ever since.

Some of you may realize the Mister Zberlitz of aways back: to you go an almond or two. Some of you may have latched onto that bee as well. Trans-stank ultimately:


I'm the man with exceptional memory,
who writes everything twice.
With my dander up in Mississippi,
I smelled surf and turf while stoned.

I caught a train to Saskatoon,
and picked my toes from the soup-pot.
The hundredth customer,
I got a free haircut.

"So bored, the leprechauns
ran circles around the ambulance."
The town filled up with
legends such as these.

Each one is catalogued,
they make good soup,
and dad hauled out statements of Hans Castorp's
at times to end arguments.

The last puma was set up.
I catalogued its weight and temperature.
Sesame seeds in March?
Don't they usually come in summer?

All the caviar and bacon
replicated. The smells, the nose's
chambers. A tulip at twilight.
Treehouses and coffee.

Tonight I plugged into a bumblebee.
It tastes freshest when it's warm.

with a ----very --small -----rabbit from ----Georgia
set deep cleansing. Out the stair, the rabbit can't seem to pretend. Out the cleansing, the rabbit sits on the steps to watch: Anonymous Flynn sends out gallons of creosote for rabbits to daub logs of tragedies and fateful decisions. Plebius Skate calls for dominion! The Dalmatians all cower. It's time for Plebius Skate's meteor shower! I hope all you kids are enjoying the story. Wap-wap, wap, wap. Duck and moose. Woo-woo, woo, woo. Then sparrows, the piano a dragonfly. Ravel's concerto is another cartoon score of a frequently remake'd short called the Supreme Fiction. Mister Zberlitz: attention, Mister Zberlitz!



"You've been lapsing during meetings, you've got some irrational opinions, and frankly we're all getting sick and tired of you." --Barnum Bailey


tHEY STAND IN statue circles,
they Burgoyne of Le Marche,
hereditable inflences chowing down on
their lines of sight.
We all chewin the woodwork,
we all slurpin two thousan two,
and we all slurpin the woodwork.
Defile it with a pitchfork, if you're so handy with it.
There's antiquity in the fact'ry and
everyone's set up a checkerboard or two.

2 - Cheese Airplanes

There they were, shiny and new, no-one told them
with rats attracting enclosers, builders of
small farms trying to get creosote
cocktails. You see from that: the beautiful
can be beautiful too. This cheese invention
raises a racket too. You've heard
about its inventor: he made squash
horns and invented his own
language. Animals all around,
hidden in the New
Bruswick woodwork, X. found
Halloween just delightful, and can't wait to
come again. That's the last of the updates. For now.


Jade-inlayed jowls suspended over the antique
toolshed, Harry watched the crumbly women and men
who wrote the last fascicle
shift their weights
at the printer's.
Papers and housing were later disgusting.
The lawyers were the first to bust rank:
"Why this particular clock?
Why the toolshed?
Why the electrocuted Habañero?"

4 - The Upper Bound of Barcelona

Okay now: the payola is for the paella,
the shrimp is on the lamb,
and the goggle-eyed stalemates
     with ratchet-wrenches as their last resort,

try to inspire confidence in the invention of a
man who's just gone mad?
This just doesn't make sense.
     It doesn't just make sense,

it makes Kodachrome. Can I visit with you the first teepee?
And everywhere they're going,
the people walk in pairs.
     With fargle-riffic skittish blasters

falling from the sky, Linda
partitions the scenes.
The failure of the whole thing seems likely.
     Nobody's buying it.

I'd give each of them a collared eel.
I'd peel the wool and skin off the lamb
and feet it to a rattler. The magic toilet doesn't add up,
therefore: send me a sweater,
the service has been launched.
Plan for stormy weather.

Okay now: the pale eel is for the capital,
the scout for experiments,
and everybody on board chewing
cheese airplanes.
It had been a terrible flight,
and Linda they blamed a little down the way.
Where caterpillars grow it's a little down the way.

Every couple has a quintuplet.
The magic toilet stinks and barks.
Linda seals the postal package and
sends it, "to Chewbacca, from Burbank".
If you can't hear the rhyme, it's too late
now. For us to pull out of Bosnia, you understand.

It was the general payola plan
to, say, stave off the Russians with an
ounce of parakeet meat, or to blame Aristotle for
a specific pun. The clarty philanthropists wind their way home,
each muddled by wine and bacon. Unmistakable,
grieving moans, then, "Okay now: the what did you say?"

how come you never seen the update to that SHKSPEARE?DOPE? story, eh? that's because it's probaly found negative, and they don't report it if it's not sensations

Once up on o a tim e: There lived a Brauer County man, who sat up in the nite at two oclock and said I'm a flying saucer, I'm a freak, and he once flew out by his hair. Xorxon, alien invader. Calmly took hold like no man took hold of the spaceship's shitty ply-wrap.

more trouble for me & them printed, cause dispatches not Pastiches & transmissions not documentations, compositions. Harry Anders & Mailgirl Tomantha, coming up the drive

some old Country song saying doodle on the carpet caked over cape cod

apertif - cap yer teef: IT's the terriflest blessed of the revelation : crotchless ropebound squirrel chili thirty point buck old crow whiskey

"Doesn't matter, I like chili better, anyway."
--Dan Rather on the CBS Evening News, November 23, 1999.

A jam an d-butter sandwich are you chu-ckling beczuse i aught not caught a lingcod dagmar chi-li-s guide to-ulysses dagmarch-ili says chapteron-e i-buck mulligan wannats to-fuck the milklady chapter two seven dildo-less wannats to fuck the schoolb-oys chapter three seven dildo-less wannats to fuck his uncle charlie chapter four blooming dildo wannats to fuck his cat chapter five blooming dildo wannats to fuck nurse ratchett chapter six blooming dildo wannats putsy deadman chapter seven blooming dildo wannats to fuck a newsman chapter eight blooming dildo wannats to fuck a you pee up deadman-s duck whistling outside chapter nine blooming dildo wannats to fuck a rock and a whipple chapter ten blooming dildo wannats to fuck a blind sailor and a drunken priest chapter eleven blooming dildo wannats to fuck a barmaid chapter twelve blooming dildo wannats to fuck a one-eyed man chapter thirteen blooming dildo wannats to fuck a little girl chapter fourteen blooming dildo wannats to bone an ox chapter fifteen blooming dildo wannats to fuck a whore chapter sixteen blooming dildo wannats to fuck seven dildo-less chapter seventeen blooming dildo wannats to fuck a cup of hot chocolate chapter eighteen blooming dildo wannats to kiss his wife.

Tyranny, despotism, hotch-pot, call it what you will: I woke up from my slumber nursing baby Stewart. He started to sweat, and he said it was all the artillery, he was worried about it. He had been reading Modern Armaments & Warfare Monthl. He couldn't get his hops u. He caught the flew in shopacoooooooba! There were links on the front cover of MA&WM. links and a gun. Jeff Bridges, the fake, he bleeped them out. Here's a tricky trick to do: odd ought skirt sickirt Sarah. Here's a toddy trick to do: odd ought skirt a dot Sarah. These are panagrams: they smaragdine nap aesthetic eras. To blink, to stomp, to prove: Panama!




I tell you, you try searchin, you try searchin for the eponymous algorisms, you'll get nothin. You hear me, kid? No funny business today. You can frown all day.


"The Dauphin is a work in which energy, bland from daybreak on, and a certain kinetic constipation conspire to form an alluvial being elsewhere of progeny's prodigy: it's a ham, with grapes to match."
-- G T K

Mrs Hagen tortured mice in her sleep.

Mr Hagen stalked into the parlor menacingly and said to Mrs Hagen, "Stop this nonsense, you wonderful wretch! I've spent thirty years of my life spinning your mousecicles about in the parlor next door, and I'll be god damned if I'm going to spend another at the same."

Mistah Beenz with alarm watched the shapeshifting trash. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was nervously cutting off his feet. "With a carving knife this time, I suppose," said Mr Hagen when informed.

What makes strange things hang this way? Something leaves less than inexactness, limp danglies clinging to the ledge and flipping in the wind. We'll just say Mr Hagen & Mrs Hagen until something springs up. Some names.

See something on the backs of your eyelids, cat. "I see the sun setting, and the moss drying." But, o cat, what about adventure? You have had adventures, but they've all taken place in lockboxes: traveling across those United States in a lockbox, having lunch with the Portuguese tyro minister in a lockbox, interviewing the dying astronaut in his broken down space capsule from your lockbox at Houston. Not that you could have better, being just a cat. Mistah Beenz stares dumbly at the keyboard clacketting.

Mistah Beenz stares dumbly at the blue plastic hanging from the back of a rocking chair. Mr Hagen adopts a pose. He says to himself, "Why don't I take a seat. Who would ever say that to themself? His or herself?" Mr Hagen takes a seat. It's a sign of the sure in a typewriter: a slice of turkey, covered with cranberry, wedged in between the damper and the spool, being typed upon. Mr Hagen is typing a secret lesson for the cat, Mistah Beenz, on a piece of turkey. It will be like something out of Revelation!

"Here, kitty kitty kitty, Mistah Beenz, I've got a piece of primo A turkey for you, your consumptive behavior!" It takes the cat days to finish the lesson. Eventually ants get into it.

Mr Hagen walked into the mound, and seeing Charlie plugging away at his wife's beehive, rushed back out and grabbed a shovel.

"The bees make better honey when you don't see them coming out of the beehive." She knew he was trying to tell her something, but she did not know what. It was the third day of the cruise, and everyone was waking up with a headache. Everyone eventually jumped overboard when the bees proved to be too much to bear.

Everyone from the cruise made it to shore. The salt crusts kept the bees at bay. Mr and Mrs Hagen, the waiter Jeff, and Lucille set up camp in a cave while bears picked berries away by the stream. The rest of the voyagers climbed up Mount Island, as the captain named it to satiate his young daughter. There wasn't anything really appropriate to call it, anyhow. Eventually everyone starved. Their immune systems broke down, and their intestines grew ripe with infection.

Wheel none, Abe oh, there is skong! If you like this tall brown monument to human endeavour with a blue ring, I'll break the Flat Thing. It is whatever stijl. A flip up to a-flat hurls them into an "us" error. He has to pretend to ignore the crowd. Who knows if he's neurotic or humble? Keep waving your hands; keep dancing. No denumont today, muncher, it's evation as alwayss. Ten voices going at once, but you can't tell because they're time-delayed. You're listening to this and saying yes I understand?

Today is the My Little Pony marathon. My little Pony went satchel, my Little Pony went squib, My little Pony went eek-eek-eek down to the wires, and burned her boots in a firey mesh crash. My Little Pony ate Roß peat, my little Poney ate the Sheppermint Fascicle and turned dragonwise. My little pony is snowing, my Little Poney is postal, a ichorous solvent layer is her unshimmering aura. My little pony paradiddles her paws along the frosted lawn, My little pony nibbles the black pancake of bienoriginatin' splines, the ultimate flashing pinecone jewel of minty tutored fiscal elation, the marbled flan of disputation, the umber pineapple of biencivility.

Change that poker game, change what it caught, what it could have been. I have absolutely no use at all for this fork. The world has changed, irremediably. Well-- it does every moment. This leap could be inconceivable for any Republican Democrat, to anyone who cldn't conceive it, a b c d e f g h i g -- j -- k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z, ofisher?! No apologies.

a groundwart hog on the ploona blort log --decenber sevneth ^ not n, this slab kicks the kernels around

& die Final Bushism of the Day (huffentlick)

oyarsh, A spicie vegitible | sink stone An ell, oyarsh
oyarsh, chorka tover A ake | Chernomyerdyn mood, oyarsh

--Skikken Hap Wollap, in "Ek Pinekapel Ell Ek Son Pnuumeticet"

Al chthose atasme epigrapi, icuz Al oantedet shoueayl whaetiz, hez Christ shon thornbrow | Al hite out ober dze Span is whorth your while, oyarsh | knaw, perlegrapes, sulfimanders oprescor, Skikken Hap Wollap hite out widzem too | knaw perlegrapes, mandable oprescor, no unknotting of words am advihisible. | Kno, o pearly grapes, stuffy members of the press corps, that while Al lay hyz lynxleg at right angles to the ground, & linked hyz ryxleg at right angles to the knot of hyz knee, he tilted back hyz neck and cranked up a hella hymn of an epigraph. Ribit, rib-b-b-b-bit, creak, cre-e-e-e-eak.

So jiggled the spoolwell, had Al not had hyz granpa's spoolwheel readied by Misty at hyz side, wouldn't have cheery eating to knaw. "Trout!" say Misty. He couldn't of told you what he was trying to do for hyz life, and damn near keeled over the railing reeling the thing in. Trout, snout! Damn bastard bish, it was a lie and a hallubit, a heavy loafer! A real mother, Misty, it musta been this big! "A real stretcher," said Misty.

She was cutting her hair, halloween glamourously. They were bringing this fish to a party! A real party, a real school function!

Al sat next to Misty. "How's this for a fish," he asked the damn bastard bish.

"A real stretcher," said Misty and smiled.

He was pleased as a sprig pickle! He couldn't get hyz hopes up!

It was only an hour bis später, and Al couldn't hold hyz lunch in. He had to retch. On the way to the toilet, he called for Ralph.

"Ralph, Ralph," he cried, "bleeagho-o-o-o!" spewing brill's content all over the dancefloor.

"Oh my garsh," said Misty, "you've spoilt the whole evening! Oh my toodley!"

Numerous happy couples spilled into the wings, clapping hands and shouting, "Awhoo! Awhoo!"

Arriving in the toilet, Al heaved forth a frothy signal to Archangel Gabriel, and said, "Boyo, will this ever be a night to remember, for I have spilt my gills' gunk onto the Royal Happy Dancefloor! ... But at least I clooted a nice hallubit!"

--the royal tall tale of the famished danish