Our minds, no longer the tabla rasa for learning, are receptacles brimmed with tweet, and text and Facebook; sources where the subjective and objective are indistinguishable, and truth, macerates under a steady diet of ignorance, anger and alternate facts, and thus polluted, we find ourselves inexorably drawn to the master of the misleading, and, in electing him president, reduce the role of the presidency from pinnacle of democratic tradition to mere parergon to exalted ego.
Dander of demented dog, rabbits foot and spider’s eye; at last I’ve found the final factor, forthdrawn from a fetid frog and mixing fast and pouring quick, a rent chanticleer as my grim chalice, I drink it down and, inexorably I raise my head and peering at the looking glass I welcome Mister Hyde.
As a youth, having no understanding of syncope, my meandering through a dictionary to learn new words often made me the object of good-natured japes when I discovered, always in public forums, that words like cupboard had no “p”, herbs no “h”and forecastle almost no letters at all, yet all these jests paled in comparison with the derision I received trying to use anglicized terms in France; it appears to be a criminal offense for an American to ask for “un hot-dog”.
"This is not a zero-sum game", said Moses strumming his psaltery and remembering the idolaters worship of the golden calf; "only we can lose, and, though they call me procrustes for my obdurate obedience of God’s commandments, He is our Shepard on this great physical and metaphysical transhmance, and now I fear I will never reach His promised pasture".
I was early to espouse the complete acceptance of this remarkable allochthonous race of aliens arriving with a sapience and technology that I perceived could solve many of homo sapiens most intractable problems--of course the remuneration in exotic drugs and "unusual" sexual rites didn't hurt.
Sitting on our porch very late one night, seeing a dripping specter walking stiffly up the street, I was startled when the apparition turned up our walk, paused, shook back her wet and matted elflock and asked if I knew whether a soak in the local lake would avail her in removing poison ivy from her body, and, recognizing her as the young Lolita from the apartment next door, I apprised her that, sadly, the irritant was not miscible in water—and said no more since, seeing how she was walking and where she was scratching, I decided it might be impolitic to ask how she had come by such a rash in the small hours of the night by such an isolated lake.
The Blue Idol—the beyond—was the quaternary in Gauguin’s “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?”; and, just I was immersing myself in the aesthetic and ontological wonder of the work, my ruminations were ruined by a wowser of a teacher dithering over how to explain naked girls and death to his horde of teenybopper charges.
“That is a difficult question;”, I deponed at the inquest, “the erratic I removed from her skull was an anatopism only in the sense that it did not belong there, I tend to think, based on the jealous rage of her jilted lover, that it was not placed there erroneously.”
Yet, even as the toro enjoyed his surprising victory over the world famous matador, he knew he would now be slated for Sunday’s repachage, that a repeat of his snowbroth salvation was unlikely, and all the remaining toreros would be seeking his blood, and so, as the ambulance entered the ring amidst much tumult and disarray, the bull, doing his utmost to remain inconspicuous, quietly back out of it, turned, and made for the mountain meadows above the city.
I sign this confession in my own hand, and by this holograph swear that it was I who killed Mrs. Appleton, the impetus for my crime being the crime she inflicted on Jenny, my cow pony of 20 years; I entrusted Jenny to the Appleton farm to provide her with a sweet retirement and when I came for a visit, there was this snot-nosed chit in the dressage ring, a whip in her hand, a whip that brought blood to Jenny’s back, a whip the brought tears to my eyes, the same whip I used to burke Mrs. Appleton.
Gregor cut his eyeteeth double-dealing penny-ante poker games and by his late teens he was fixing horse races; today was to be his biggest caper yet, rigging a bobsled race at the Olympiad, and his quisling heart was joyful at the prospect of denying his home country their best chance at a medal, but, standing at the end of the bobsled run, his life of crime came to a abrupt end when the sled, its kinetic energy multiplied by the secret addition of lead weights, crashed through the safety barrier, running Gregor down, the flashing rails severing his legs, and for many years he could be heard musing bitterly that in the old days grifters were simply run out of town on a rail.
It was not our politics that made us antipodes but our quality of expression; no spigot would ever stem the effusive flow of innuendo and vulgar accusation from his cask of righteous venom and so when I was asked to edit his latest polemic, I discovered that when my bowdlerization was complete, there was nothing left.
Dolores’s leaving left me dolorous, but the depth of that sadness was nothing compared to the depth of my madness and she knew better than to footle with me now; she ran to the antipodes, the lands of the lamb, to escape the lam I would visit on her.
His fascination with chemistry began when he first observed the unique structure of olympicene, now a boffin chemist in his own right, he often dabbled in creating new chemical structures and was frankly baffled by how many mores he offended when he invented nazicene.
The famed paparazzi and world’s authority on chiropterology both had made part of their esse a daily perusal of quadrivial quandary, and when they saw a day without entries, they dropped everything and immediately submitted (an admittedly pinchback) solution to the quandary!
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