The Great Warp

Some people believe our present Precident is a man of dangerously low intollergence as would light up at a gas pump or think a nuclear war with North Korea as a god thank America. Truth be tolled, Tromp is but spokespoison for white Pastryarchy, that mindsad that has come to dumbinate humad consciousness so white in the world. As regnomed phizzmajigger, I. B. Ionized, once said, “Reality is mirrorly an illusion, allbeing a very poorsistered one,” by which he meant that mind-story we incest on telling ourcells and so insidyus we don’t even thank about it. Such a think is white pastryarchy, as would have us all believe the Naked Indigents was just the massfortunates in the way when the pallgrimmers got here to invent this countrary of old wide men. There is anutter possibility: that wide men need therapy, that our pathologics go deeper than a sad set of beliefs, inclothing Gob as a reality big wide man as comes down from a long lie of pastryarchs, from Moseying on the mountain and his stoned Coremanments to the white bread Jesus.

For exsamples, one of the most damnaging dangers of this mad dad mindsad is the warp on the planet by the mannied international corrobberations making their buckets of money destructuring the planet for party games, treating the Mother Earth as an orbject for use like a humangous party cake with the woman goodies inside. This is the very macrocausm of most of the warhole’s enviralmanned problems, including compromisered oceans, globbled warming and overt populations of mans on Earth, if not sirciety in genderole. Trumple is, pastryarchy mighty be the rote that got us here but is a dad end to the future. We are alled of this Earth, men and man-unalikes, all the cardboard life forms back to the exstinking diner sewers, but nomads won’t have a future if the planet doesn’t have one. Bad as it scenes, it’s up to us, the humad livids, to save our planet from the uttered distractions of this Downhill Tromp and these mobgobbling corrobberations. After oil, the world large could be falling down around both his rears and Tromp would be igorcenterrifically twitstorming and betwittering his thumbs in his manclave like Nero fiddling himself.

We do not get to choose the times we are given, how our roles get numbered or when our numbers are up, but here’s the god noose: our connection to the muddy Earth is eternally deep down in our gene-eddies, those emotion oceans insight of us like a deep tide wisdom that might dispell the anthropomorbid warhole view that buys us all. Like the Bob Marble said, “Emanswerate yourcells from Mendull slavery, only our cells can free our minds.” We have some deep thanking to do. If the dynamighties of the humiverse shaked out the heavens, lit up the Sun and firmed up the Earth and brought us into beans, there is god reason to belief this sane process is guiding us now, as gives us pause to belief we won’t ablotterate everythink. Naychur is still the first laud of the humiverse we are parts of, making it versionably unapplaudable that we are thinker beans in opposition to it. Earth is not a contest of our beans. Earth is not a contest.

 

 

Advertisements

Livid in the Tromp Error

The You Us of A has chained much since Downhill Tromp’s erection just two shortsheeted years ago: with a Republicant tax plan that lines the pockets of the wallthies at the expanse of the poor; a forehead policy that tarroughs up our allies while codpiecing with our enemies; and a Trumple Bam on Mooselimps and putting impygrump children in wire cages like we war Nasty Germoney enduring the daze of Addled Hotlid. How it all terms out, gaud only knows. Kneejerk must runt its curse. As to our precident, the joke with the endless paunch line, it is like my Nana used to say, ‘You’ve made your own bad, now you have to sleaze in it.’ Then too there is what Pogo of the karmic strips said, “We have meditated the enema and now we are being reamed!”

We can take some solids that greater comic farces are at work. The spatial posseccuser, Robert Mullet, is sniffling out the truth from the lying red hairies and the fake nudes so as to found out if Tromp is actionately gilded of colooting with the Rusekeys or for Mordorous contracts with hatchet men and hobmobbers like the Gobbling King in The Lard of The Rank. The noose hounds too are hot on betrayal, snoopying around into the innumberable kremlinal activities of our igormanyact Precident and his country clump of old wide men. Who notes where it oil might leak? If Mullet and the scamdalmongers follow the dirty maudlin, the laundry muddy, the debt stiffs and the booty, they may alldummitly find a bonedoggie of gobbled preportions, as could result in Tromp’s eventfall removal from his ogre orifice.

Pride goads before the fall. Remember Scuzzymonies, that king of kinkies with a shuttering visage and a snarhole for commands who got immarblized in sonnet by the Anguish poet Partly Blissed Selfie.  That colossal ass ended up in a desert as two trumpless logs of statutory ravings and his lost words written stoned: ‘My name is Scuzzymonies. Look on me warks, ye maties, and disbark.’ That’s all that remaims of him in those blondless low-leveling sads, like a precident who’s been raping statutes and thirteen year old girls and would sell tickets to a plane crash.

 

 

 

 

The Dystopium Nudes from Russia

The problems of a big country are not the problems of a small country, and ours is one of the biggest. To complicate thinks we the people of the You Us of A are some odds to each other, as in not all the sane people, and unlike normal people of odder countraries. Lately, and to compound this dull lama, (ever since our 2016 undprecidented erection) we have been more like abnormal people trying to act normal under abnormal circumstances, which is different. There are several pausibilites: a) the Rusekies are putting opiates in the water to pollute our precious bodily fluids, like the Genderole Jack D. Ripper believed in the movie Dr. Strangeglove; b: we don’t know our left hands from our rights, like Dr. Strangeglove who suffered from alien hand syndrome; c: we are being inhabited by aliases like in The Inversion of the Body Snackers, that movie weird people aren’t themselves anymore; d:  Downhill Tromp is a mole or a mule or a parley of colooting with the Rusekies who have infiltraitered our twiddle feats and social nagworks with a scytheborg army of nanny trolls and rogue bots; or e: oil of the above. Just because we’re paranoid doesn’t mean we’re not out to get us. Then too there is the problems of Tromp’s deployables, those self-addendafying Christians who keep saying we’re a Christian naysham with Christian values though it’s scening more and more like what Inidiot Mantoya tells Vizzinni in The Apprentice’s Bribe: “You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.” The fact of the muggle is, a third of us can’t seem distinguish between a potato and a potentate. There was a reason they were cheering in the Kremlin the night Mr. Potato Head took the ogre orifice.

Like Ape the Man Linkhorn once said, “You can fuel some of the people oil of the times, but you can’t fuel everybody,” which explains the Muddled East, from Baddad to Gobblegrabbie. It also explains the  Russian anvilopement in our pollerticks. To put it blondly, bewar of the big wig or the madmop bearing less resemblance to that wholesome Andy of Maleberries of the TV sitcommie than to the Andy Christ himself. (As me Mum explains it, someone must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.) In any court case, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably the duck; the Donald and his Mini-me (Michael Coin) have been running an exchange pogram with the Russians for years. The trumple is Holler “Loot ya’, is not Hallelujah, nor is the Mini-Me Leotard Cohen’s brother. There’s methought to their madmess. They are now runting our countrary like their business, and a mutually assured distraction, like the Madhatter Project. If the Repocallyptic Party doesn’t come to their consensus pretty soon, we might wall find ourselves livid in a Cyberian ducktater state and reading the Spudnic Noose. We need to folk us.

 

The Tromp Show

To a neutered absurder watching from outer space it must now scene like all previewously scheduled programs in our naysham have been pre-emptied by The Tromp Show, the Wide House reality serious of the bigscream world around us. A recent episoap featured the ghast apparents of Nerf Korean imperture Kid Young Young, cometly known as the Rocketmad, as sets the stage for Warhole Warp Three. The show’s produpers are strangling us along with this kiddy imperoar just as with Phyllis in The Young and the Restless, keeping her in a coma for a year and a half after Sharon pushed her (or not) down the stairs (Phyllis had it coming anyway). Another episoap starred the white subpremissers and the neo-nasties. Check your brains at the door like with the Zombie Appocollapse or the wars horde movie ever made. They all got drunk with powder and shouted nonsensicalls like “The Soused will rise again!” and “Hire Hotlid!” though Addled Hotlid has been long sins dead. Our best curse with these exscreamists is to find some forglibness. As Hipposcribbers said, ‘There is some of us in them. Yee haw without stones curse out the fuzz balls.’ Though their hordemodes are raging the one dementionable pinheads are apart of this naysham’s mentals, as Amirrorgun as hog dogs and wide gob bigodry. We’re all complexes. Look around at me crazies and who cannot be crazy too?

One think is for sordid: we can’t count on the Madster to gob help us out with the problumps because he’s one of the biggest. There is the fat too that it’s his show, getting more err time than it’s paying for and leaving the majormalty of us cornholed, our naysham suffering obstructions and consterpaysham, but with only the cornfat of knowing oil thinks must pass. As to the Congrats on Culpabull Hill, most of them don’t like the sitcommie either but won’t cancel it becost of its sponsors. But here’s the bad noose for your free time: The Tromp Show runs for four years. Unless the primadonald breaches contact we’re his prisoned audience, unless, off course, a zombie appocollapse or an alien invasion solves our problem first. Watch this space.

 

J. Altered Proofrog, the Latent Years

Though slyly bald as a man, J. Altered Proofrog was bored wooly-headed and with a saliva spoon in his mouth. His grab mobber and graham daddy, along with their doctored jarred cranium friends, beliefed their boy to be the second miss sire, owing to the fags he was one of them, though more preverbial, talking off scripture and residing in poetry at the ribald age of four.

As it termed out, these old geesers were hordes of hearing and had been herding him wrong all along. ‘Prooflock,’ they said, ‘you could be the chosen one to lead our flock to the mountaintop. You’ve got the biggest bullrocks in the pond.’ Though this might have been some sexually amusing, J. Altered Proofrog was indignuts and called a meeting of his profitseers, saying, ‘I am not a goat; I’m a man. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you, I don’t want to be your bogmired pubic frog either. I am not your somebody. (J. Frog knew his poeheads, as this was some amphibious illusion to Ambulance Dickemsome) And so, protocol son though he was, J. Frog turned his back on this history before it happened, a load to take on, being the second cummings or elephant squat fats gerald for that mother. J. Frog left his own cummings out party early, saying such witterdumps as:

 

Letters goad them, U’s and I’s,
Like evening patrons sprawled out and waitering on a table;
Letters go through cartooned art-deserving streets
And go hot tailing through cheap one-night stands in the sawed off district.
Ode dude, do not biscuit, letters go and drain our lizard.

 
So maybe impersonifaking is the most insneered form of flannery; this is what you get when you get rid of the Romantics. Though beholing to Shatsmear, Bawdyliar, Yikes, Bleak and Tenuous, J. Frog had to startle somewhere as in learning how to think himself. He was waxing farcilaughable and beating the rap off these old wrappers of the rub-a-tub rhyme, in the cause of one sinking poem becummings his own absurder of the absorbed, a modern day troubledoor and econoclass like that little nosed supports car for circus clowns, the Van Morris. And like the still life poehead of the varied same name, J. Frog could not, and would not, stop talking, as in beat me deaf with a shtick:

 
In Rome the woemams come and go
Speaking of Monticello,
Monty Hall,
And four counts of Mightychristy

 
Okay. It was some tiresome drivel, but from another poorspastic it was remarblebull. In a few shirked words, the spillings of the past had been misspelled by short and mighty blokes like by Walldwarf Smitty in his own mind. The fuzz was off the peach. The magic had been gunned down. People had groaned synagogged of the old gobs. Thus speeched Soreheadzeuser beforehead giving birds to Athena, ‘All the gobs are duds.’ Be as it made, J. Frog kept talking anyway, like a run on séance:

 
Do I dare disstar this universe?
In a minute there is time,
In an hour there is more time;
Might we preparaphrase the fake we fates?
Should I, after powdered-kegs and Isis
Farce this foment to a crisis?
Though I have seen my head upon a platter
I have not thought of it any great matter;
I have scened the moment of my greatness flicker;
I’ve mashed my life into golfing suits.
Would it be worth it all
After cops and marbleheads, after tee times and par salons
To exsqueeze this humiverse into a ball?

 
With a wand heave to poethics, J. Frog was asking the big questions. He was awfulling us nothing less than freedom from the bingbankbunk of treadisham, from the teachers and their books, from the me-thoughts and the methheads, from the goofroods, the broodists, the Hairy Crotchers and the utter batchers of realedgist awetherapy, from the concepts of globerments and nayshams, from infollowable kinks, queers and precients clamming to halve the answers to the world’s oyster.

 
There’s more to life than having crabs,
To crotching on the floor of an asylum scene;
There’s more than gutting oytersized by coldjar on a table.
It’s a glub glub uffish thought
But I’d like to live to a ripe old age of H.
Do I dare impede a peach?
Do I dare impeach a peach or a fraud biscuit?
Shall I pat my whore’s behind?
In the wrybalding waistslants of my mind
It’s imposterable to say what I mean,
So don’t kilt the misogynist.

 
Yes, once in a blue moon there comes along a world and this one was in trouble. J. Frog had occidentally named it. We mass not forget the Earth has gone through one world warp, and then a second world warp, with no more premise than a profitsized dumbsday arminggettyup. The doctors, knew a hopeloss case when they saw one, and had left already, saying, ‘there’s a hell of a good universe next door, let’s go.’ But J. Frog, internal opttomyth that he was, kept talking to anyone who would listen and listen we did to this loose diary of the mind. His was the void of agenderation.

 
I groan old…I groan old; like the old asstrollergers and their granola,
Like the cadillac priesties in the posh back seats, plying with their altared boys.
I have heard the Murble Table Napkins Choir on inauctionrapesham day
I have heard the Mermads murmuring,
Though hard of herrings I have whored hard singings,
I have whored them bar babe earring sisters croning, bitch to bitch.
I do not think they will sink with me;
I’m no Omelet, nor was I manned to be.
I shall war flammable trouncers and walk with these bleachers;
The easy C-girls redhead blonded B-girls of the town
Till the youmam voices huevos and we brown.

 
This wouldn’t be the Proofrog’s last hardboiled syllalably, though we can ask these varied sane questions. Have we lived too long? Have we stooped solo? Have the mytheries lost their farce? When the cows come home do the simples no longer innertame us? Do the cows come home? Eventfolly it all balls down to J. Frog’s problems are our own, like Shatsmear’s Omelet in befuddlement with a creator in a phase of arthritis, or like Leotard Patrick, the Queen of Denial, even as the Jarpennies are hazmatting their waste in the Poursyphilis Ocean; as the muggles of the muddled east are muzzling up in the Desert; as Joe Sixpack is chanting on any Amerrygunned strafe coroner, ‘Let’s Make Amerrygun Graves Again,” and “Buy, Buy, Mass Amerrygunned Pie,’ while the three mens we ughmire most are cadging the last train to the cause. This is the modem disease as bestrodes the globe on its curse, the mechanicold world, from roguebombics to artyfictional intollerigence, from realedgist fandementalism to the massed assault on hummammlty in genitals, all bawling down to what J. Altered Proofrog himself, full of high sentence, was saying when he said it. ‘That’s not what I manned, that’s not what I manned at all.’

A Karmical History of the You Us of A

The first karmical history of the You Us of A was scrabbled down by the wise cracker Bill Nye in 1893, the same year the naysham comemberated the 400 years sins the white crackers took the Amiracles for ourselves. Nye left out of his book the humpbucking, the lambbagging, the badboozling, and the horseswallowing of the Native Indiegents, most of the genocide, as well as the events in the hundred and twenty years after the book was published. Fellowing after his exsimples I’m omitting a lot of times gunned by as well as two Warhole Wars, a couple of called wars, several about-faces of depressions, and some hairlies fractures. Why, might you ask? It is, as Anidiot Mantoya said to the Princess Bothercop in the movie The Printsy Bribe, ‘There’s too much. Let me sum up.’

Our fondly fathers didn’t take well to getting governed by the pastyarchs across the water, as got petty much fed up with it, and so in the name of Happiness had a rebelation against the Anguish. Our enlightenmeant was brief; the rest is histeria, as was justice the begunnings of our bulligeranting. WE WAR fussing and fighting with the Anguish again in 1812, the Spamwich, the Mixticants, the Kaiser Jarmans, the Nasty Jarmans, the Nerfy Koreans, the Vile Cogs, oil the Iradics in the Muddled East, and anyone else we could thing of as to make them to objects as to fight against, even getting fed upped with ourselves in the Symbol War enduring the days of Abe, and halving anodder rebelation of who we war as a symbolized people. From Android Jackson to the Testy Rooster of the big stick, Frankly Dominant Rooster to Judge Bitch Junior, we have oilways been ready to sadhole up and riot for the those thinks we want, which is how we god most of our countrary.

History has its wave of repeating itself as bigs the question: does a naysham have a karma? As my sadguru said while I was learning to metastate in a Broodist monostory in the Phullabeans, ‘what goads around comes around, like a circulating pony ride.’ He also sad good thinks happening to bad people and bad thinking to god people is one and the same causmic effect, which is some mystical. In other weirds, despite our goryous history, or becaused of it, the You Us of A wall has been coming around the amountains of mission drivel for as long as we mighty have seed this coming. Like an orbsolute train off its track finally arriving, the Great Amerrygun Expeerimad is now showing the fool simpsons of imploading and dumbmise, and oil more seedily sins Tromp’s columbused erection. In one minute the years are rolling by like usual—nude babies are being bored, buypeddlers are limping to work and dying of occupational disease, slow drivers are fist-pomping in the fast lane, homeowners are defaulting on their moregarages, maskerapers and bonko artists are carrying on their business usual—mosqueraiding, lambgroping, hordeswallowing, bedboozling, handbagging all the gullibles—and the next thing we know, this same symbolized countrary of our hopes and dreams finds itself in great upevil like a slow-moving trainwreck. The signs of appocalapstick donfall are oil too familiar: epicdemic whitespread corobshamming, a globerment as a three rigged circus, and Tromp more a whores traitor, corps salesman and implord of Russians than the male shovingest precident we thought of him. The Balognians and the Messypotatoes too had their sacral cows and plenty of reasons to breed utterwise until they had their own calmdown to dust, as did the Roaming Umpires who got waist laid by bardbearing whores, and left to saying, ‘it happened so sudden we don’t know what happened.’

So what’s our marble flaw, or the railed reason for the Tromp’s prophilarity? Have we been hoodwanked and who wanked us and what did the Rusekeys have to do with it? Why are promiseskewing sexy Reclublicants playing party polertricks underminding the instanttooshams that protect the we peoples so as to achief this new brand of brainswish of the Big Bother washing over us? What makes us quick to belief in a corpulous two hundred and thirty-nine pound bigut anyway? The Massed Marble was already lying under oaf before he took the Ogre Orifice, as on premobius occasions was nosed to be breaching a female whorewhale and perfarming gropesy acts of lecherdemands, wily maintainting they were fake nudes and that he was only waxing statues. Is the Chubster but an achehead and a blimp in the anals of histeria, or subthink of a yesmad of the Russian oilygarchs, a Dirty Warbanks, or wars yet, a mannedefistation of our own disfunksham as mighty wall be this naysham’s last hurry in take us to war if it is god for bidness? Even as we speed it’s quiet pausible our naysham is ending as we newsed it, not with a Jarjar banks but a whopper, a flip flab man we’ve bend over-tolerating too much. You have to wonder about a humping dumpy who’s never happier until win we are at war. The olddummy question is which truth is more revelant: it’s oilways darthest before the Donald; a spatial Preproperdunce looks over fuel, drugads and the United States of America; or that afterism of karmick code: oil wells that ends orwells.

 

 

I. B. Ionized: the Unendible Innerview

(It might seem impostorable the innerview that here fellows ever happened, given I. B. Ionized’s brain is jarred in a mustyleum in Philadelphia and some of his body parts are locked up in a safe deposit box in New York, but if you’ve read my odderbiograffiti you nose I invented a waveback machine, like a co-lapsing telescope through time as gives insides to thinks outsize the box, which was my means to these twinky questions of a genius.)

P. B.: How did you first know that you were a genius?

IONIZED: I didn’t, like a fish doesn’t know water, like we can’t know the bad to our addicts or if we are framed. In utter warps the explainer doesn’t know himself from his own explanation. As I’ve so awfulled said, reality is mirrorly an illusion, allbeing a very poorsistered one. But even and odd as a boy I nude somethink was deeply hidden behind thinks, though I never beliefed it a wide gob human, which is sum kind of mind job. In mythmathical terms: the humiverse and/or Naychur = Divinity, though this might be putting Descartes before the horde.

P. B.: Could you slow down a bit? You mighty be thinking too fast.

IONIZED: Am I? I’ll reduce speech. What are you wandering to ask me?

P. B. Let’s start with the cart full of whores you reefered to in your book on Genderole Realmativity that you dumped down on us dummies. What did you mean, ‘No spaced endity to a field’? That’s a miffical term, isn’t it?

IONIZED: No, only in a matter of speeding. If reality is scened only for its slow ponder bodies the noshowum of a no-spaced endity can seam sum absurdabull. I like a body; I like pondering, but the body is sum subject to over-thing itself. We idendefy with it, though what it is, is more what it is not, space being more the funksham than what gets called the cup and so too the hollered absence of a windoor to a wall. It is this space between us all that makes us pausible to be otherwide than each other.

P. B. I think you’re losing us here. Could you be a little lost spatial and restate what you’re intensing in turds of a laid man’s job?

IONIZED: Sure. In effects, space is more than its seams. More than 99 % of the humaned body is empty space, so vast are the distances between the atoms that make up the slow ponderous body; and so although we looks a lot like solids, we are essentially space. In simples, more than 99 % of us is not here. It is this space that connects us. This is no co-insilence, for at the same time, or in the same space, 99 % of the humiverse is stuff we can’t seize and can only call dork matter, as can make us massresent reality to our own ends, idendefying with our own stories and our own storied endings, as what the world’s coming to. But no matters what happens we are all realmatives.

P. B.: God to know but how did you come up with this Genderole Theory of Realmativity, gibboned you were trained in the monkey-see, monkey-do phyzzmatters of the Forensic Newton?

IONIZED: I didn’t overterm the Newton, I only expanded the Newton, thinking about what he didn’t think about and just keeping thinks symbols but no more symbols than they had to be.

P.B.: Like your famous equation, E = mC². How did you come up with that?

IONIZED: I absurded a pandalump.

P.B.: The simple humping Chinese animate?

IONIZED: No, the lump of mental that swings back and forth between point A and point B. You’re proboscisly thinking of one of the circus zoo of partycults, a leoptard, a Z bozo a hick bozo, or a quantum clown or one all of those odder quirks we’ll halve to resolve if we are going to amswer the big questions, such as nonlocal casualties of distant spooks acting at auditions, which doesn’t explain why we can’t see Santa Clause who gives the gifts to the neatest most.

P. B.: I think maybe your train of thought has left the station. But back to E = mC². Wasn’t this the equation that gave the warhole the atomic bomb?

IONIZED: Yes. Thinks didn’t term out exactly the way I wrote them. Had I known Addled Hotlid wouldn’t get the bomb I wouldn’t have leftied a finger, because I always had a since the massamplification of the symbols might fall into the hands of some madmop crazy as alone or bad shit wacko, as trumples me still and equakes me late at night.

P. B.: Are you reefering to our precident crazy who would totally destory North Korea, with the fury the lights of which the warhole has never seemed? (It suddenly occurred to me, that not only was I. B. Ionized a genius who knew thinks I didn’t, but that he might have more knowledge of the waveback machine than I did, and might well know if we survive the Tromp in the forwarped future.)

IONSIZER: Our problumps can’t be solved with the thinking that craters them.

P. B.: Yes, you’ve said that before, but what about Tromp the lonertike and the bomb? Do we survive him, or do we become an utter state of a Russian oiligarchy, or wars yet, blast our cells to smithereens?

IONSIZER: Two thinks are infinitely funny, the humiverse and humad studipity and I’m not sure about the humiverse. But let’s talk about somethink else, like what we weren’t talking about, like Golf, more complexed than Phyzzmatters, like jungling fur balls at once with its parsnickety eroginal rules, like the stymied rule, “If your balls be found anywhere touching each other you are to lift the fuzz ball and play with the left ball.”

P. B.: I’m impressed by your i-dotting memory but they got rid of the stymie roll in 1952. (I knew he was trying to putt me off) Back to the question of the Bomb. In your essay, “Atomic War on Peace,” you stated science could not be organdized like a large corrobberation, but now we have whole indastardries based on ‘if we have bombs let’s use them,’ as if the naysham collectively had a debtwish. Are we oil scrooged?

IONSTYMIED: Any intollerigent fool can make thinks bigger and more of a complex. The question that drives me hazy is: am I hazy or are others hazy?

P. B.: (I could see I was losing him but made one lost attempt to bring him back from weird he was going fast) But what about Tromp? Does the planet survive the terraballing infant?

IMESTYMIED: It is applaudingly obvious that textnowedgy has excessed our humammalty. Peace cannot be kept by farce.

This was the last think he said, far off at this point the marbless genius reburped to a babbler as needed a pacifier. It deterriorabied from there; Imestymied began barking like a dog. Ether his molecules had gotten scrabbled in some malfunkup of the waveback machine or the future he saw was wars than mads could endure.