I've got my coffee, tobacco, and Guinness extra stout. Ready as Eddie. Clearly dagmar underline chili dot pitas dot com ('chili: Paris budge) must change or die. With no apology to W Stevens I tell you: Dagmar Chili is dead, ephebe, but Dagmar Chili was a name for something that never could be named. A marriage is three months, but Toadex Hobogrammathon is forever, and allows me to bring up all clumsy-like the Codex Seraphinianus (PN6381 .S4 1983) of L Serafini which if you ahvent seen you should for it is fun and fun is good. I first saw it mentioned in M Frauenfelder's (not) H M Handbuch (oh jeez, cat's licking last night's dinnerplate) and again in D Hofstadter's Metamagical Themas in an essay on different forms of 'nonsense' (which also refers to B Dylan's Tarantula as "inspired nonsense" as I recall). Read JediBlog's coffee story etc.--if he updates often this'll be a good'n. And J Barger's startpage template has proven very useful in the last cupola days.
You may think, "It's gibberish, Teddy," but have you tried running the text of ='chili: Paris Budge= through the MegaRehap compiler? You wouldn't have thought of that yourself-- but try it. It might surprise you. You can download the latest version of the MegaRehap compiler at href colon slash slash http dot "Here's MegaRehap compiler version four point zero one, Teddy" dot ordge, and If You Are Ready It might Make an Airplane, or a Whole Bee, or a Fighter Truck.
Croissant Holland rose from the diningroom table, on which a laser and a machete lay crossed. "Imbibing another loan," he said as a drop of grape coff syrup dribbled down from his one remaining nostril. "Whosoever have a diseased mind, may he plummet; whosoever have--" he began to recite the verse but cld not finish. It was too late in the day and nobody was home but his cat, Muffin, who had imagined the whole scene. "Jurrrrep!" said Muffin. "Fine--hold steady there, pussey," replied the imagined Croissant. Whether there had been a break--sudden and perfidious--in Muffin's mind, nobody was to know--for--without a second instance--'twas back to the 81st century with the lot of ye.
I tell you one thing: this is how encyclopedias will be written come y2k--because: the robots will be able to write as humans once wrote--and the only way to prove it's you, dude, and not some spirtual machine that wrote the deal, is to 'make it funky of drugz'.
You have rec'd yr instructions--now--according to evolutionary psychologist Lee Hubert Smitty, "the only way you're going to be getting any hot booty-booty in this next century is if you can prove you're not some gimcrack robot-devoted hustler." So get out there kids, and take a couple handfuls of pee cubensis--have at 'er, kiddos! Ungh!
The autograph ms of this article is available free at request. No psychobabble substances went into the writing of this report.
Old man's vox mit dem hip-hop box:
Do the haw-haw dance time ten
This is What Can Chili do for ME the Knowed Corespndences of D. Chili
Dorothea Dorothea had a wife but couldn't eat her
shot her in the parking lot
then a big fuckin robot came out of heaven
heading for the robot seminar at the 7-11
he ript off Dorothea's fake beard and squeezed her till her assss whissled, Then god lain back in his lazy chair and smoking a big joynt he said, Robot that aintn't too kindly.
And robot said, We robots is thick like mustard, don't front, god!
And god said, Fuck you robot, we is thick up hee-ar too!
And then robot and god got in a little scuffle, and the radio commentator said it was "fisticuffs all the way, bay-beeeee!" and god kicked the robots face in and beat him to what the commentator called a "hydrauLICfluous PULP" but little mice came out and put the robot together and killed eight little mice and made him little mouse-hide slippers. The end by S--- Kanutty.
Now, Mister Edward Olivar Wilson and Mister Gee Minister Skochgard are wrong in their surmises, surprises, surmises, mise en scenes, appetizers, etc. etc. and they would like to apologise. What to do? Well, we could go on public television but that wouldn't reach too many people really, so why not go on just the standard neighborhood radio stations [uh oh, fingers doing the walking] and they broadcast their message along with some fine jug ensemblery they've been working at while their theoretics withered. Theodore Huxtable and Gee Gordon Huxley and Julian Huxley and Thomas Henry and John Henry and Theodore Roosevelt were hauling a load out of Tucson, chemicals and shit, and they were passing by these neighborhood radio stations on the way to rancho superbo and they decided to give the high jack to these radio stations, and hee hee hee! they smashed their way into each and every one and stole all that radio ee-quipment, and took it down to the rancho, and built a rocketship to shoot them up to mars, where they went and met martians whose only words were "hoy!" and "shamahai!" And that is where the word "Shamahai!" really comes from. A rough translation into english might be "washerwoman fossil" which was deduced by the teleprosthetic Doctor Helen Sututkins-Spielvogel.
"Meghan, I'm finally a-writing on a book."
"Really, Charlie Roy? What's it going to be about?"
"Well, a while back, while I was showering, I had the strangest notion: I was thinking of questions and answers in service of some particular metaphor I was working at, and I wondered, 'What is a question that is well suited to be its own answer?' and I couldn't think of any, Meghan, not one. A theologically-minded person might venture that the universe is such a question, or a humanist may say it is mankind. In service of that metaphor I thought that a good autodidact might fit the bill, but I just could not for the life of me think of a everyday run-of-the-mill question-question that could, when asked, yield itself in response. It's probably logically impossible, anyhow, another of my quixotic quests!"
"That's fantastic, Charlie Roy!"
"Don't you mean fascinating?"
"Yes, I guess you're right."
This bastard has caught a slight glimpse of the low-investment high-returns arena of Zarkung-Dipple but
will turn his stupid ass away from it and go along with his low-investment low-returns areola. I see france, I see france ... &chatter. I urgently reject Whorf-Sapir. It is wrong wrong wrong, Whorf and Sapir were effeminate fascists.
I will tell you what reeks: I was completing word equations in the bathtub last night after being hit by the asteroid Mint Blue Tulip (OG1022b) and with my index finger I skwashed an ant who was earlier circling about the inner cylinder of the drain stained orange by the holy waters that come out of the shower nozzle. Holy waters have higher albedo that [oops, the cat wrote that]
In my room sit
I who in recent hours did ope
That book of Jarry, the spiral scope
and saw my name written across page ten
I told on my wraith and it became thin
Lines written in a stupor
below the Hagia Sofia
Mister KEATS hath slept in rank manure
and so hath MILTON that guilty sewer-
mouth'd hagbeater, and also SHELLEY,
(whose name, we perceive, doth rhyme with "smelly")
and also WORDSWORTH, likewise YEATS
(who stinks like a drunkie and masturbates)
and I see there as well a likeness of RILKE
who staineth his own frenchcut slacks of silk, ah
these gutterlicking poets have but one motto:
"You only live once, so why not live blotto?"
Jah know, jah just get goin on something and jah hafta carry it out to the end.
Step into the hyena.
"The I Ching is Sweet to Eat / Archaeopteryx"
by Cloisant Holland
Instruments! Confluence! Insolence! Continents! Influence! O my Jove my Jove, old hoofer have you forsaken me? Red lips, coincidence! Accidents! Archaeopteryx, where ha' ne'er you flown? Chrysalis, where ha' ne'er you been forked apart by a dog's tongue? Wot, Steve Sloane? Hit or miss, what dandy walks alone? Wot, King Kong, I cannae hear you, you have to speak up. I think you dropped something, sahr. I think you dropped your hat and a few quarters when you stepped up to the cash register. Oh, thank you kind sahr. Yes, most certainly I did. Thank you kind sahr. It donnae merit mention, sahr, for so's my proclivity to practice such civility. Oh, sahr you poet? No, goodman, goddamn, I'm orphan.
What is God?
A Majestic Elf.
No, I wager my soul He's Archaeopteryx.
Eer, sahr, is a book.
Oh goodman, prithee tell, what goodbook is this?
It is a cavebook.
A cavebook of a caveman?
No, of elves.
Eer is a fly.
O, ee does have little wings!
Eer is a horse.
O, ee does have littlest foots!
Eer is a hare.
O, ee has bountiful ears!
Eer is archaeopteryx.
O, what for a snout!
Eer is a chigger.
O, ee don't bite, sahr, do ee?
Now meditate on these:
Optics; Archaeopteryx; Ethics; Medicine
Lady Godiva's broken femur
Dressed up politely
Like a lemur in spring
Here comes the king
Dropped off his daughter at the university
He drives a nail through the iron kettle
Also the board
Walks like a sherpa
Fuels his Ford with cherry cough syrup
Cut both his ears
Lady Godiva picks up a pelt
It came from owls
She feeds it to a smelt
Wearing diaphanous felt, the lewd bawd
She felt like hang-gliding
Juan drove a catpost through his head
Went to the postoffice
Later learned he was dead
Dropped off his dirty carpet
Landed on a picket fence in Mauritania
Yup, gonna take the name of the Lord and split with it.
Well, why do I am alook alike a poss of porterpease?
Because Jimmie had three hinckles,
a high, a low, a dinkle
and he threw it to his furious bum
and his furious bum had loads of "fun"
before he set it back in the cart
== it was so heavy it made him fart!
(Irish poem, c. 1889)
These are sorces, R---, that Mister Joyce himself must have yooz'd?
Alternate, fault her, Nate,
terminate -- naught!
Why don't those heethenz
just do as they ought!
Riddle me fiddle me randy-ro:
shit, but that girl's like just such a fat 'ho'.
(Irish wedding-song, by Jimmie Heethenz, Belgrade, I mean Belfast, um... 1921)
These are probably sources that Mister Joyce himself stole from, so he wasn't that original after all! Like I always Like to say Lake I Like to say, Lick the Lake Like black Liquor Lacquer ichor Lulling, Lapping Lappland's Larboard, starboard, and evenkeel.
These doors are made of fattened see-weed, furucksin stapled into the corner, draping over some mandarin's neck-nape, showing gold spitoons inside the saloons, hanging over my neck around a pole tree around mawmaw and around die Sicherheitsmassnahmen.
My apartment's chandelier des paisannes rattles when the dickheads upstairs blast their "rocket roll" music or whatever the gumplastered okies think it's called!
No title, bub, but it's probably best to skip this preparatory pabulum
and scroll down to "Sagging from a False Premiss" and maybe even the bit about chickens preceding that.
Thirty white omnimals in a shed, see how they meow? Hannibal
goes to greet the dead with drafthorses and pisshorces and race horces.
A punchy godlick.
Bleeding follicles of St Mary's statue
Presently twenty miles over Scotland due to accidental
accwissition of Archaeopteryx. The dialogs like some admixture of [censored]. Do you know thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird?
"One with a spyglass, one through the trees,
One through a bird's eye, one through a bee's,
One of a blindman, one of a drunk,
Somethin somethin somethin, somethin 'bout funk."
Well that's not at all like thirteen ways of looking at
a pracketbird. My mother was orginally Cervantes and Rabelais but I forgot
her name. And later Jarry, obviously before I was born, the parts of "Likeness
of a King" that are about Elvis and the Todoles which are not written for
moneymaking (in fact they never sold them) but were taken to the trash
and set there with all the spiders. Logs covered with spiders in the trashbin,
tried to drown them in Listerine but you know in Bio lab we saw that Listerine
was the only of six supposedly 'anti-bacterial' products that gave forth
no inhibitors of bacterial multiplication. Got me a mexico mexico class,
going to ram it down miss Spoovack class, going to talk to prince of gas,
going down to Harlem with a mexico class. Go to meet the chickies at a
hundred degrees, burn up parliament with the piss flames in his knees,
old enough to pay szechuan carpeting fees, go to get a lesson in speaking
Alright, ladies and gents, it's two oclock in three hours,
are we going to have a praty or what.
Doctor Edouard Proscimaize
Would you believe it's a happening? Would you believe
they courts of law in Marin Cty are trying an old white-bearded man for
his niece's crimes? Would you believe that you can make a million of dollars
in your spare time? Act now, this cult is run fast. Set hard in Little
Valley I and my group of a hundred hardened criminals are making money
like hotcakes. It's your turn to make money like hotcakes. Testimonials:
Jerome Kern, twenty-three years aged, set out in trek across the Blue Mountains,
wandered for forty days and forty nights and stumbled across Little Valley
where he made inquiries. I responded, "Yes, such powers can be yours for
your dedication please," and twenty years later he returned to society
a changed man, performed many miracles. Testimonials: Tom Caine, bucktooth
sapper, entered a coliseum housing twelve thousands of participants. One
man walked out; that man was Tom Caine. He soon performed many miracles.
Testimonials: Margarete Wilkinson, mother of nine, was once barren but
came to Doctor Edouard Proscimaize's workshop at 1622 Tin Alley, Little
Valley, VT 21171, and drank nothing but black grease. Three months later
birthed twins. Performed thereafter many miracles. Join now and save. Signed,
his most humble servant, Leroi Smatterly.
My cat is over-grazing! His catnip will not survive into
the next millenium at this rate of consuption!
O I think I have too much room left to fill in this document.
Too many shoes. Chicken, my cat's alias, is making noise, the Albigensian
Thunder-God, a plump small cat.
Stanley? You want to recover?
Oh I went to the train named Kalamazoo
I twisted thirty donuts up my hulabalue
I waited thirty tables and I pissed in thirty jakes
just to see Mister Markus lost in Korea with the shakes
Things break up in clear view
Separate the ennui from the isn't
Bark like a dog when Sophie walks by
Howl like a knight all day
Talking to beernuts
Leaving her standing in the low hut
Talking to Alfredo
Pay for the lamp.
A hundred bucks and tax.
Tap your knows and hope tomorrow
you get chicken chowder for lunch.
You wonder why I came?
My feet are so high,
my snow burned cheeks are so high.
Lower me down to toboggan town
and let me toboggan with the girls
who run their toboggans down the snow hill
Yeah, maybe the dictionary is the king of Gods
no mighty oaks growin out of peanuts
o please dear god don't phase us out
got lost in the desert
we wuz stricken with gout
lost our tickets in the laundry-o-mat
o lordy sweet lordy don't phase us out
each blew an ounce of jalapeño whisky thru his
or her snout
we know we done you wrong dear god
but please o please don't phase us out
all the little chickens
i won't phase you out
i understand your problems
they're the same as mine
everybody got problems
my advice is head north for a while
let the storm blow over
hang out with the ducks
And the lyrics today ... are foaming-at-the-mouth!
Christopher Robin better fly south.
Got a horse at poopoo corner ... and complaining
"Sagging from a False Premiss"
False Premiss: WE fiXXX Swedish denchures, so U dont have
Note: of the two volumes of known letters of Dr. Holland,
only these four short emissles remain after the volumes corrosion by brimstone,
lighting, sulphur in white hot methane man statue.
27th Letter of Record
Dr. Holland to Egretta Shrew
19 Aug. 1976
Here's my vertical assault for the day.
I could step to you
with a fish-pecker gun
if only I knew
you were looking for the sum yung gai cause you didn't
read Chinese and it's what your 'friend' told you to order. The waiter
spoke esperanto. I knew some French, and we we worked it out somewhere
between Yahweh and Wawawai, far out past Washtucna. Amidst cries of "Satan
rides a Toyota!" and "Waiter hand me a five-Honda." we pursued our wet
hot romance amongst the lakes, Lake Spawstic and Lake Spawn. As the Poet
We had it in our garden, ba-by,
we had it in the winter. and who dares argue with the sages of them ages? We were
caught up in a high-tootlin festyfall of sixty days and nights, in the
highball capital of Tucson. The man in the red mask stepped to your shoulders,
twiddled your muffs, and said, "Well if Oycter Chowder ain't the whoresone,
yeah a long-leg hooker from Neeewwharlins!" Shake me a fluff in a candymuff!
Oh Hortense! Oh Hummanity! Oh for a long-leg whore, sure my showny bowny
wouldjen heck a mindakes in tails a trail! etc. In other words, man I was
stumped, but that booze set him aright! Set him down the road to watch
Star Wars on the three-coater, if ya get my drift. . . . A caesura and
a fermata, you oh darling Pootsie cringe, I wave my flanges in the wind.
Oh Pootsie my eggie my shewie! Come to fats pappa!
Yours in Pepper-chewity,
Dr. Cloisant Holland
28th Letter of Record
Dr. Holland to Lamb LaMont
26 Oct. 1976
Ewwww! And do weet havg a pencilpete to paste! A shock
that you pencilpete staygar had a parr part to play in my upcuppence, didjoonow?
Wh-hell! A dickie on you now, snot thee in grass, bowse
amongst the chiltons and Hiltons of this pale coil, corpse and pole! As
the Poet once said,
Every Time I'm in Chagrin,
Prancin' 'bout Nekkid, drinkin'
M' noggin starts wonderin', "How
And then I remember the long-Famed
Fall, etc. and who can argue with history? No man ever has
done battle with History, eh poke-poke the third?
Yours in Teemerity,
29th Letter of Record
Dr. Holland to Thorny Hawkins
26 Oct. 1976
Thorny, jist gotta tell ya, things gettin better an better.
Hey Thorny, I jist tole that ole LAmont boy off like
Gimme three Grecians for that one, honkey!
30th Letter of Record
Dr. Holland to Egretta Shrew
21 Nov. 1976
It's winter again, Dear Egretta, and I feel again a slow
chill crawling up my abs & thighs as I gaze upon the clear and beautiful
face of Luna as I infer you as well my Sweet Egretta must be doing as well,
being a moonstruck ditz since the day I thee wed. Well It's getting back
to Stockholm-time and, you see, I was thinking of broadening the fort doors,
letting Saul Wadfellow through to live in the basement or the back yard.
If this isn't too upsetting, let me introduce you to the finger-pinger,
which pinges your fingers in three-seconds flat, at the drop of a hat.
It spittles, it swallows,
It tweedles, it sucks,
It's part of a Power of
As we know them to be Furucksin, in fact, we'll jist call
them that, for good major? Well Egretta, remember the time I first jissom'd
all over your leg? I was faking, it was hot white mustard, I'm sorry but
as you can expland by now, I'm naked before the court and jury, asking
all you kind folks to find me durty of soaking in a cousined crime I couldn't
commit. The gash and water jangles, ice rope tangles, I sense you executioner,
a scented moral judge. Some talk of pollution, others talk of profit, I
sense no expectations as a loozer on the wall. Egretta to face up the fattie
fact, I can't stand you and you are hereby and hereforth evicted from these
P.S. Coastin up cop street
Succhin fo some hooey,
Lookin evry cop's beat
Lookin up dey looie
Succhin hi and succhin lo
Anyplace you wanta go
Lookin up dey looie, hooey