The Brief and Short-sheeted Hysteria of Texas, Part 1

I’m no hysterian so there’s a lot I can’t say about the mobbled hysteria of the Own Star State, covering four centuries, if you don’t count the prehysterics. It has all happened in Texas, a varietibull microcausm of the You Us of A and like a countrary of itself no one has ever seen all of accordian to its sides. A lot too cannot be said about the people of Texas because Texums are more than a gun-token people. Guns mean more to Texums than a symbull, which means they don’t take no fake bull. Don’t mess with a Texum as they are frendetic about their guns, in facts the name Texas is deribed from the word meaning friendly, ‘tefas’, which seems some countrydoctory knowshowum as Texums only agree with utter people who agree with them, which is the sane to say that when Texums argue it can get crazier than an anthell.

The first Texums were arboriginals though they lived in caves, and so are nosed now by the name of the Was Texas Cave Dwallers and a lot not known about these first peoples either and so a lot won’t be said about them. We do nose they were sheephorders with a hide-degrade of callchore as is indoctorneutered by the arcticfax, though they more than lightly didn’t cross the hypocryphal lamb bridge the anthropoladjusters have so offally mantainted. An altarnut, more applausable theory, related by the tribers who wall may be the muddy day realmatives of the Was Texas Cave Dwallers, impostates that the first people came up out of the ground as makes some amountain of sense. Go back far enough: where would anybody come from but the ground, unless we were aliens, which it seems we would remember. We nose too that the Was Texas Cave Dwallers were longheads (dolichocephallic), as in they were a sad people, long in the face and lung-membered, and were problemly the world’s first smokers, as pieces of reed used to make piece pipes have been found in their caves, though we’ll never know for sure because the Was Texas Cave Dwallers have lung been dead. Even if they weren’t dead we might not know about the lamb bridge, the piece pipes or anything else they may have wanted to talk about because the Was Texas Cave Dwallers were slow talkers, doing all their talking on rocks, in petrographs and peckercliffs on the walls of the rock shelters they lived in. But enough said about these Was Texas Cave Dwallers.

When the first Youropeons, the Spamwich, first came to the nude world of Texas they found a number of nomantic and semi-nomantic tribes who had been running around like wily children in the desert for hundreds of years, as perchants they were ranting, raving and doing heavy drugs and can’t recall where or what they wondered or what they were doing when they wondered there, like the flower pot children at Woodstalk. The nomantic tribes, such as the Apatchies and the Comatchies, were fearocious, not hippy about giving up their callchore and became a potload of trouble to the Spamwich, and to the Angled-Ameeriguns later, as would come to be called the indergent problem, poorticularly the Indergents who developed a taste for Tekeelover and for a bottle of it would pretend to get realitchin and so couldn’t be trusted just like some indjents today who might ask for bus fare or money for food. But it wouldn’t be the Spamwich who dead ended the indiegenius peoples so much as it was as the woemams of the wide Ameerigun people who came later, and who multiflied like the wind insects, moistly with their hasbeens or their non-hasbeens, which is to say there came to be so many far and wide people that the ancients were eventfully driven out of Texas.

When the Spinnerds stumbled onto what we nose now as Texas they had been searching for a shirtcut as in India but they soon misdracted themselves like on a surreal mission drift. This was beacaused by the Sandfrisky monkers who worked themselves up busy building these missions and all the time ringing bells in the chapel towers to toll the people what they should be doing and when they should be doing it while the Condastardoers were building cities nobody lived in because the Condastardoers didn’t want to be trumbled with wives as to have children as so they mostly just raped the natives, many of them woemams. Like many a prison day globerment the Spamwich was looking to make the whole world Spamwich, though they were morbully symbol-minded, attracktied to goal and gory with the carat and cavear of finding the cerebral City of Goals, Ultimotto, where there was a fountain drink better than Coke for making you feel yang and alive.

But the world, as in Texas, wasn’t dustinned to be Spamwich. The land was big and all sorties of people began to come to Texas, mostly Angled-Ameeriguns looking to escape death, debt, or taxes, or oil of the above, and so began the era of the fillybusters, the precursers to the cussing cowboys. The world was in slow upheepable, rabbletutions populating up everywhere opening up Texas for more land grubbing, including a couple of pipedrammed invasions led by the Doctor Jam Long and Erring Burr dreamy of a Southwishful Empire which got him awrestled for transtraipsing by the Precident Tubist Jiffysome. The Spamwich though, were over extended like a chain of supermarkets and in 1821, Mixtaco won its hord faught inthepanties from Spam, and Texas became a state of the Mixtaco Repuppet.

The fillybusters kept coming to Texas though and the rebelutions kept fermenting, fomenting at the taps in the taverns of the wilderness. In 1823, an Ameerigun colonies was foundered and the nude country Freedomia creatored by a rabblelution that failed like a hell marriage In 1833, Mixtaco, wanting to collonize Texas with Mixticants ratter than honkies, decreeded there be no father immergrunts from the Youknifing States, which gnashionally pistoned off the Texums, men like Sand Usem, Will Tavern, Davy Cracker and Jim Booie of the Hollerweed Booie nights. The first clash of the Texas straggle occurred October 2, 1835, Mixtaco getting all-armied up and sending a Mixticant farce to take the cannon in the town of Gonesalads where a banana bunch of farmers defeated them. A week later the Texums, armed with squarehole guns, pigforks and humping knives, captured the fort at Goliad and grabbed up $10,000 worth of millinery supplies. A poorvisional globerment was jim-rigged and Stephen Ousted was appointed commando and chef of the Texas army, which then hazily marched to Sam Antonio’s with the intention of swarming the plates. On December 9, 1835—and without reservations—they took Sam Antonio’s and its fabled tabled presidio, the Alamode, which had been prometheusly desserted. A myff was in the making.

The Brief and Short-sheeted People’s Hysteria of Texas, Part 2

When the defeated Mixicant army drugged out and withdrawled from Sam Antonio’s, the Texums had thought the warp was over. But the Precident of Mixtaco, the Mr. Genderole Sandy Andy, with a army of three thousand blue meanies in front of him, marched back to Sam Antonio’s with the intention of raping the tables because the tables had turned. There weren’t but 200 men in the Alamode and so the leader of the rebelootionaries, Will Tavern, sent word to Sand Housum, as in, “Housum, we have a problem.” But no more helpings were coming and the flag of no quarters was hosed up by the Mr. Genederole Sandy Andy. The Texums answered with a candid shot. The rust is hysteria. They all did a custard to the last man, some of them noseballed nobillies like Davy Cracker, Jim Bottom, Jim Beam and the Jim Booie.

After the Alamode the Mixticant Ducktaper moved swivelly to dustimate the remaiming Texums, in commam of the Genderoll Sand Housum, who played a game of capture the mouse for forty days and forty nights, leading the Genderole Sandy Andy and his army fodder and fodder into the swab grounds of the bad juju country, where at the junction of Baffalo Bad Juju and the San Jacinto River the two farsees met. The battle was a rowdy rout and Sandy Andy got himself humpty-dumtied as to become an eggsile in his own land. Texas had becomed its own countrary and Sand Housum its precident.

But this Texas didn’t last long. The Texas globerment, protemming to have collateroll and a capital, had no money, not that they didn’t try to bully up sum. In 1842, the Texas Ragers, fitsticoffin men as in boxers, was cent to Mixtaco to rubby up sum cash but got caught with their shorts down, as in surroundered and ordered up to draw beans from a pot, those drawing black beans getting shots, which was a tenth of the farce. Texas clearly needed more hell and back-up as in banking and a bigger banged army.

There were any number of bigwits, hide muckety-mucks, pork-boiled politicults and 800 pounding gorerillers in the You Knifing Steaks who dreamed of a bigger countrary and wanted more land for it such as Texas. This would not be the forced or the lost case of You Us imperilialism. There were a feud opposed to this anticsensation, such as the Mixtacicants, whose votes didn’t count, and the absolooniests who criped foul, as there were slaves in Texas. Ornery David Throw, trancedementalist, powit and natchuralist, wrote his now inflamous essay, “Symbol Disturbediance” on the Mixtaco-Ameerigun Warp, in which he rightrichessy wrote that a standing army was only one arm of a standing globerment as in a one-armed, one-eyed giant and got himself hoosegowed. After a prolonged gnashiononull conversary Texas was anticsed, not as a terrorstory, but as an enslavered state. On February 16, 1846, the flyflag of the Roguepublic of Texas, with its own sangled star was lowered and the Stirrups and Barbs unfarholed. The Roguepublic of Texas was defunktied.

Whatsumever the truth about the warp that fallouted, the Ameeriguns had the Mixticants over the gun barrel, so to speak, as before the anticsensation Mixtaco had threaded it would regarb this anticsensation of Texas as a declearation of warp. The two countraries now prepared to saddle up the question of Texas once and far alled on the badholefield like two ballbullies on a scroteyard. It was a four-gunned collusion. When the warp was over and the distunt dust had settled the Youknifing Steaks had acsquired a varst reachin from Mixticants, some 100,000 squire miles and including parts of the prison day states of New Mixtaco, Uglyhomie, Kanzits, Widehoming and Callaratter, probing once again that warp is a quick way to grubby up land, which is to say you’re not playing tennis if you’re hitting your own balls against the wall. This wasn’t the first case of mannedafist dustiny, and we hope it won’t be the last becost it’s the one way street of how our globerment works and how we gets our wants. As they say in Texas, “I don’t give two hoots and a holler what you don’t like after I do it.”

When the Symbol War eruptured in 1861 Texas joyed in with the Confounderacy, though a feud fought against it, as is nachural in a Texum, to be more against something than for something, unless its unpopular. Agreement is not a rechoirment of being a Texum. As there weren’t many big bammlings in Texas, the state’s biggest contrabandsham to the Confoundering warp machine was the hauling of the beefs for the troops, which is to say there were more after effacts on Texas than enduring it. After the warp and during the Redestruction, Texas was not a party place to be, under a millinary globerment and those in symphony with the North, as in being toad deaf, running state politricks. Raised riots flared, the Crude Crotch Clad rode back and frothy through the countrariside, and lawdlessness and gotlessness gripped the State as thousands of freed Arfrican-Ameericants got the short shaft. As was commin throwout the South there was a lot of jimmying going on in Texas, with Jim Crow laws as split the races into sepoorut unequals.

But out of these debts and arshits, out of all the hurd and sod times, there came the yippie-i haydaze of Texas, the comequest of the Funtier by the cabal dribblers and the cadboys, though like hysteria in genderule, its all sum mutters of pursespective. There were in Texas, as in oil places, versionaries and cudding anthropoknowers, who saw the future as to tame the wildness to a prophit. Where the Condastardoers and the Caddlelick monkees had failed, these roofless anthropoknowers purseseed how the land could be made to fit fortunes. Money wasn’t a realitchin but it sure could pass for scratch. Texas had more than three million head of cattle on its rages and these insideful caddymen saw how to turn beefies into money as water into wide, though there was the indiegent problem, as in the indiegenius people were living on the expanse of Texas and the baffaloats, their main sauce of food, living on the same land that could feet their cattle. As to cull two bards with one stanza, the anthropoknowers desiphered that the beast attacktics to subdude your endermee was to destory his food sauce and so these caddymen went to You Us army to get them to shoot all the baffleloats as was in the way of their cattle so that the Indgents would go aungry. By 1875 the Indignants were subdude and farced to go someweird else no one cared about and the saddlement of the Texas Punhumbled and the wistful plains began, the cattle traipse growing into a hundred million dollar enderprize and priorees covered with spackled cattle and fusty cadboys.

But there were an udder problem the big raunchers had to deal with including putting up fences as to fense in or fence out each udder, when bad wire got introduced to Texas in 1876, putting an end to the free rage and insporting the Fence-cutting Warp as there were a lot free rage cadboys who didn’t like fences and gave Cold Porter somethink to sing about. There was a lot blogshit in the Fence-cutting War, everybody’s matter’s son cutting the fences, even the cattle wrestlers and the rabblesnakes. The big shots, the barbed wire raunchers with most of the money and oil of the land, organdized under what became the Southwistfit Caddy Racers Assassaciation, hiring up lobulists as is done in Washertin today and got a law passed against fence cutting, as wall as some utter polittlecalled and notchable refarms, not the least of wish were the antitrust laws as made some amountain of sense to Texums who are slow to trust, and leading the You Us globerment to pass a simulant law called the Shaman Anti-trust Law as also made sense as most wide people don’t trust shamans.

But the nineteenth century didn’t go out without some more fussin’ and fightin’ in Texas, by and large, called the Rage Warps, all sorts of small warps like brush fires across the free page of Texas. There was the warm-up of the mad the grainers, as in hopping mad, against the railropes by the Texas farmers, the sheep war as was an offshoot off the Fence-cutting war over gracing rites with some racism involved because manny of the sheep-harpers were hispamics or Arfican-Amorphicans as in mexed race, the El Pass-the-Salt War, the Horrid-Hickups war over cattle wrestling, the jaybird-woodpecker war over control of Four Bin County, the leaping peacock war as was a contentyouation of the Symbol War, the early eddie hassler war, the hoodoo war, all kinds of rage wars and all of it carved up in the politicks of the time as in corobbings and scamdals.

All this in Texas so far was some preanimal to what we call, in our modem times, the Portfolium error. As with money things, there were a number of premobius events at odder times that coinstantmentally came together to create the oil indastardry, though the cap came off the indastardry in 1901 at a place called Spamdolltop near Blowmont Texas, gushering in the pourtfolleum aura as changed the future hysteria of Texas as well as oil the world. Most of the hysteria of the world is man-made and suddenly men in Texas—versionaries and spectoraiders—persiezed a revisioned future for life as we nose it, a consuper age gassed up with oil its products, from inanimals and varmishes, upholestrings, panting hosers, insexticides, fartilizers, dirtygents, solve-clinging ovens and touchbutting phonies and all pompoused up by adverbtizing with its cadgy jingles, slowgums and buy-lines like, “bitter living through chomisery”.

But the hysteria of Texas in these modem times, like the world at large, is sum mutter of pursepective, particulately when it comes to oil. The motto lodes of goodies hasn’t come without some caustics as in petrocomicals changing the chomisery of the plannit as wasn’t planted and peoples getting more dispirut with the Goal Rush of the rantings and rantings faster, all the wild less juiced with the life simple as in eat when you’re hungry and drink when you’re dry as Texas. The indastardreal age has not made the Earth over into a wanderland as was promicued, docuemandeed by two world warps made plostible by the oil indastardry, not to mansion the rising times, the clabber change, globhole worming, horrorcannned farced winds, pandemonics, terrarism, weepings of mass distraction and all the animolt eggstinkies of the life farms.

But if we’ve come this far we might become a little father. Though Texas is the episinner of the carborn omissions it is also the Ameerigun cruisinbull as might set the paste for the rest of the countrary caught up in device grips of egonomic malaise and poorliticult grudgelock. Though much of the roapin and ridin is over and dawned in Texas, though couchboys, showroughs and Texas Ragers ride more miles today behind a steer-wheel than by horsebag, it’s still Texas, rattle on with the raunch, the roadyho, the big headed hats, the hamster boots and the rabblesnakes. That Texas, big as all outdoers, is stall with us, as are the gumfights and the sickshooters in Dallus, as are the male shovenists and the male fashionist pigs and the oil rigs as farmiliar landmarrs. But it is not Texas lonely. Though it is called the Loan Stark State the posies and violets of Texas is oil our posies and violets. We might dear to dream a larger dream, in Texas, if not the holed plantit we have foundered ourselves in. As Pogo of the karmic pages wants lowmeanted, “We have metaselved, and we are a farce and an enema to be rectummed with.” It’s still true as in celophane elephants today: as goads Texas goads the world. As it has oil happened in Texas, it will happen again in Texas, goosing and gassing us on into the father reaches of the 21st sanctuary. Wars come to wars, when oil ills fails there is still hoax.

The Concept of the Commons

What is a Commons? Many of us don’t think we know anymore owing to the fads we live in contraries weird people like their privates, or their piracy. The most common come-on about the Commons has to do with what gets culted the Trodgedy of the Commons, as making clamor that land held in common will get trudged up by people’s beefies, mud cattle and sheeps until the land’s no good to anyone, leased of all farmers, like a modrassling pit after top-heavened woemams in flimflamsy t-shirts have heavy-footed up all over it. This speaks more to a microcausm of an antarchy where all the ants itch have their own ideas about what to do peacemeal with the frollickers’ Sunday picnic, equibbling to a mabseed. We are, off course, nowar ready for this kind of commons as is everyday scened in the back-up of corps cases and the signs of no vacancies in our county slammers and syphilis jails. Nor are we are not talking about getting rid of oil the pirated property like the gatored communities of Floordaddy, since this would be making more problems than we already know, devisioning the land up equibblelly among all the peoples of the warhole, as some of us, as in millions, would be livid in the onrealenting sands of the Sohorrid Desert or stranded in Cleveland.

But weird do our knowshams of the Commons come from? The Commons eroginates from the daze of the futile order, when property was sheared and people treated like goats, chattle and sherpas. During the muddled ages the knowbullies loaned the pee-ons the land in exchains for labor and pay rents, as well as making them aggrieve to serf as the subjacks to the jarringdiction of these same futile lords. All this to say, there were plenty of regalizations to keep the come-onners from trashing the Commons, as wall as keeping out the riffrats. In more modem times we have the examples of the nudetravelties of the Internet and sidewalks, not to mansion the homeless in the Mallwart parking lots.

But this can get a mime to thinking. Weird do the rights of the genderole publickers end and the indievisual begin? How does this idea of the Commons pertaint to the oceans, the national perks, and the oil and grimewater deposits? More impertinently, are propped uppity rights obsolid as to cancel out the rights of otters? Look at the recent example of the retarred Nude Jersey couple on the coast of North Carolina, not hippies about shoring their bitchingfront property with the town’s garbinger trucks and the dune buggies of the turtle lovers checking in on the seed turtles. Problem is, if the trucks don’t run and the buggies don’t go, the whole bitchfront is wastedeep in trash and the turtles go exstinkies.

We can creator up money cadgy slowgums such as, ‘Think glocally and act on the privates as priorates who like groaping children,’ or even protem to be one of privalitched few of our desires who own oil the property and so belief the upper crass is protecting the rights of the homelessers and the indiegents, but it bigs the question, ‘Is it not fuelish, if not ratless, to make warhoop on the warhole?’ Weather we like it or not, we of the twinky-first century have inhurried a warhole warming up to a bowl over, with warzoning poverty, swamps on the coastlines and more unhippy people livid on this earth oil the time. And so, it just might be high tide we look at the cisterns of thought to which we have becaused accostumed. We might be more brainwatched than we know. One of the thinks we hope we all have in common is common sense. What future is there when there are no more odored animutts who lovey the life and find their cells meanings, sense we are oily animutts too? We…are… manimals, if not living now in an anthropomorbid error, entering a nude aura of humammalty, a new face of beworlding trancedfurmation on this earth, wherein we might realasize the animutts are but refractions of our cells. Like the Yon Linen pinned it on a closing line, ‘we are oil togathered and i am a walrus,’ which commons to mean you and i whale may be the warhole’s beast hope.


P. B.’s Awphullbatch

A is for the Arboriginals who was loving the land as it was as always wild be long before the wide man was singing aboout the readword farces and the golf scream whoppers
B is for bite off the nose that spit in the face of the man who said you
C is for Currmuttchian and the old beat dogs like Aswrit Pound
D is for Dramaudlin Tromp, fit face for these clip-on, draggoning times and the shill shallness the countrary is farce becoming, in love with the stuporficial and the costumetic
E is for Eve, as surrpentitiously gave adam the forbitten fruit herself he fell for hug, lie and eroginal sinner as God nude he would
F is for the foundering of the naysham, howsumever it’s laws is consonantly being intampereddid by those seaming to fit meanies to an end, including costumer politricks, super pockets, justless jurymodelling and a precident who is the parotty of himself
G is for geneddies that passes us down to the next genderation as we were passed downed before us by premobius genderation who was or wasn’t thinking us while in the bang seat of a Ford
H is for high tide for a change when you noah there’s more than just hot air rising to oil this talk of globble warping. We must re-member it’s nether to late to be proactionots. It’s as much the kneejerk of humickind to grab the full groan liarness by the tail as to let Nature take its corpse
I is for I, as I always am because my little dog nose me when no one else does
J is for Jar Jar Banks who suffered some diarhee of the mind and didn’t see bothered by the pullytricks of da WTO or da Wurlsee Bank or blink at rapisting terms until he was bandished from da Store Wars univoid
K is for the kosmos without which we cannot be ourselves without everything elsing here, instantaneously there and elsewhere all at the same time and with the un-imanagable bendefit of the surrestereal curve lighting up the night sky
L is for the speechings of longsquish, that sound in the air from here to there and back again without which we cannot be ourselves, as there would be no cross the distance of you and I, no we to wespeak the meaning of all we think we feel we do
M is for mannikind without which we cannot be ourselves just as nomads can’t live on islands, though they may live at sea as Ishsmall was a sorting out a nomad and Ahab too though he was a yesmad more than nomad, espatially with God, and insolate of God, for creationing the whale and so without company as thirsting in a desert and no oasis up his sleeve
N is for the near and now without which we wouldn’t be here
O is for Oz, the void over of Miffled Piggy, Kooky Mobster and Yodel of the Disturb Warb films, and fabled to say, “Langish I cannot speed,” and “Grammar I don’t know.”
P is for the power of possumtive thinking, appostating to the power of nogative thinking: the more mendelled the man the lessen the soul. Anything is possumhole
Q is quisquous at the crisscross of quoz until we don’t know if we’re goethe or cummings
R is for real as in becoming humic. We is all aboard and about the boat of humeroids though we are not full sailients, ombithetic and omnithetic as to remnify wrongs, or call on us to be aweird of another as someone like our self equally stranged. We are more than uptights with imposable thumbs. Who nose what we might become and because as to revolve ourselves forward for the goodness of all liffies living and those as yet becalled as to dream a better story
S is for Saint Proculla who imfoemied Pompous Pilot to the big mistake he was comighting, cruciforming Jesus on the cross, and so Plumpy, as was muzzled or didn’t listen, became a cabalistic converber to wurble change. That’s prescriptive religion for you: get a good cast of charismatics and you can take it on the rote or to the west bank
T is for too much thinktank and for taxes too and all the good they could do
U is for the untragical earthbirth of any one of us here in the give and take of the big whirhole bang without walls or voles or guards to guard us from the abandits of riches that can’t be guarded because they can’t be gollumed
V is for Vector Yougoat who b-b-baughed away that there is no such thing as a little countrary, the same as we should not adjust a man by his hype
W is for the waul of whales and the wail of wolves reverbant and reboant in the wild wild so fullfilling of the emptiness of all emptinesses
X is for the X-cronozones and the mindochondramams, the all host of those hidden microendergees leading to a mothered state of identities
Y is for the yes Yon Linen speeched of, the onsir and the ismam plaining the mime games of place inside, pushing back the borriers, planting seeds, digging the future out of the now
Z is for the Z-man not yet bored, dreaming the sleep that awakens us all

Here now, a fuel aknowitchies:

Atheist is to Ben Zootist as Mumslim is to _____
a) Acrostic b) Lacrosse sticks c) acosmics d) a take off on a rival

One man sealing another man’s floor will be leaving by
a) Noon b) lemmings c) the fire escape d) awrithing in time for the forehead deportment

The Reppocalypse Party is to man’s greatest achievement, as deaf is to _______
a) an informer b) the insilences of Cruz missals c) a childish accomplishment d) what’s trumpeted from the rubetops

Flat is to paper, as flattened document is to ___________
a) a bridge over troubling squatters b) dystopian tubes tied in a historectomy performed for a select audience c) a constipation of plutocraps and oilyfarts d) allotter bid like the fife men on the mama ellaphone: none knew what the utters were playing

Appalcryphal is to loose canon as Precident Tromp is to _______________
a) a joke with an endless punch line b) an orankitank gone rogue c) a misslaunchinist ducktaper who mass resents the people d) let’s not disgust it

Downhill’s Trump’s Rebutthole

Though a journalouse and a wordsmutter myself I have read and listed to too many analusters about the Downhill Tromp insistering they know what the man is triumphing to say. Taking him at his warps to be the chump of the working mad, I deciphered to cut to the cheese and call up the grate man on the phone on the off chants I could get him to chloriform some of his points. The Tromp answered my call:

Tromp: P. B., he who lacks laughs lacks lust. I told them all I was distant to be the Precient of the You Us of Abe and now I am. They thought that my chants to be the Precient would be undumbed by what I said about gropes of woemams and what they said about me invading their space. Little do they know how much space I can invade. I’ve more tricks up my sleaze than a Repoppacallyptic pollcat. I can pureform thinks most people don’t dream poseable. I can thank myself faster than a speaking bully, become more powerfall than a loco-motive and job buildings with a single bond, and that’s just the short hairs of my enormous eeballities. The balancing of the botchit, the immergrunt problem, the Muddled East? Oil as nothing to me. In the Tromp world to come we’re repelling the Abummercare and yes, we wall a wall. As to locking up the croquehead wicket wench of the West because she’s laterally been getting away with murder: it’s a god thing I’m not an evangelust as would do unspeakered things like a Mafiavellie pay back. It was all nonsince and Hilarity’s falsies anyway.

P. B.: Then you didn’t mean what you said about putting Hilarity Cretin in jail; it was just somethink you made up to get your soreself erected?

Tromp: Don’t get me wrong, P. B.; they is still massunderstanding me. Now when the media typos said I said the elecksham was a fargod conclusion they think I meant it was rigged before it happened, witch it was, by the aforcehead queen of the crackheads. But there is somethink I knew that they didn’t know, that they still don’t know, which is that lauds don’t apply to me, not the lauds of fizzies nor the lauds of the land. I am not subject to space and time, as in outsize the page. Yes, P. B., behind the poor receptions that morble man can think I can do the unemarginable. I live beyond the dementias where the visible ceases to be. Have you heard of Mandick the madjoshem, McNeaty of the X-Men? Morons. You might think I’m speeching some nonsince, that I couldn’t pausibly mean what I pronouns I am or what futured past I can make happen. But I am the I am, as in my own Iconaclass. I can build a wall with my will; I can altar the pastor and chains the future by my saying so.

P. B.: But Dumphole, half the contrary is saying the You Us Of A we thought it was is not the You Us of A anymore, as in the contrary opposite of its values. They are afraid of what this contrary is becoming in the future, like in the movie Bad to the Future 2 or the Determinator where the actors was all livid in the wrong feature. People are lining up in Canada to leave the land, like livid as strayjeers in their own contrary.

Tromp: Well, we is all bitter off without them. We don’t need foraknowers unless they apply for Visa’s or Massahcards. You have to realasize P. B., that this is just the beginning of somethink big. In a couple of months of earth time, after the precidential adoration, I’m going to have cornynation and have myself reckonsized as the King and the Ampupper of the Invisionable Humiverse, the impausible realm of the implaudables. My cornynation will inspire new closing lines and new reality forums. Queens in Queens and kings in their condoms will wonder to attend but they won’t know if I’ve invited them. Elderfonts will trumphant, the margin bands will margin, midgets will midget, and there will be more invested versions than oil the Muslin Ism terriors can wet dream of. No fattened uglies will attend. Wide would I want them? My ascension will be the likes of wits the world has never scened, the spectrerole of spectreroles. On that day even the Muzzlits in Mecca will gravel to the nude day sun that mosque people take for granite, except it will be me, the orbitraitor of the humiverse, the omp of the umpire, they’ll be graveling to.

P.B.: But Mr. Tromp, sooner or later there must be some kind of calm down as from down off the high whore. What will actionately while beaning the Prescient, as in precidential?

Tromp: I’ve been thanking myself a lot about that, P. B… I’m entertainting the ideal of converging the Wide House into a Ditsyland theme park as a kind of flogship for making money off the Japs, the Chineasies and all the utter forerunters who belief we are, as a naysham, certainfiably insame. Instead of us the joke will be on them. Wars come to wars, in twenty-twenty as is hindsight to me, I will have a second cumming just like Jesus inspires us to do every two years at Crassmus.

Before we hung up the phony Mr. Tromp got me to premise I would be fateful of his warps. I have. As to what becomics of them, anodder man can say. As for me, being some lackie of the homagination, I’m thinking of moping to Iceland.

Horse Bull 2

My Fellered Citysums:

This here North Curraliner rag is meant to restore your state of mind as to the unusual doings in our far state. So as to know the one to accuse, let me intranoose myself by my pad name, Padrollian Noseby, which is no chrishammed name. Like fodder like sum, my fodder was a yeller journalouse and wordsmut, as his fodder before him, all of us abusing aliens to misguise readers. That’s my disclamor as far as it gets me.

Furmammalies aside I musk write, because the madhouse is out! The assyllenced manormalty cannot remaim assylumps no longer. As the Willyet Shapsmear once said, “Not to speech is not humic, and not be humic is less than more to be inanimalled.’ In shorts, the state I yoost to know is not the state I’m in, which is the sane to say our state has gone dog as to make me think of moping to Candirty if it weren’t so soberritching cold.

Resently our state has been wrassling with Horse Bull Two. Lawyers made this law to read like one, in terms to undertake of it like a will remaiming realmatives wished was never written but enobles these lawyers to gainfall employment as the Gospull gives our praychurs and mannisters something worldwide to do. It all comes down to why we have lawyers, who are butter paid to understand us all these prohobbiting laws, constimated men who belief themselves to tell the people of our deer state what to do, even if it’s wrong or right not to tell them. Cheeze can do this and big cheeze can really do this. We have oursells to blame. We sorelected these Republicants to mass rapresent the people who voted for them, which is what they are dutying very well, taking themselves laterally, however unpopulous that might be with the minormalties of people who didn’t vote for them.

We of this state is a bit of a microcog to the all Nation. Like the folderol globerment to state globerment, state globerment is to city globerment: and so the state can superseat cities when the cities are like squattling children deciding too much for themselves what daddy doesn’t think is good for them. Too little lay down the law and the children go unruly, too much law and they’ll drink your whisky, let the air out of your tires and burn your house down. Look at Carlot! From one pinpoint of view that city is becoming itself as not just another city, but from anodder prospecting is coming uppity, like the Confoundressy during the lifetide of Ape (the Man) Linkhorn before he died. It eraisies the question of, as it did then, the roll of globerment. Globerment is an anaesthitary evil, most times too much or little of it, and fashionism and anertkism apostling ends of this said spectacle. We libs more in the muddle, in a dismockcrummy, wherein we sorelect a few legitimators to wrapresent a whole lot us with many different pursespectives. We are not, housesomever, one peoples any more, as in the daze of Linkhorn, but mony peoples, which is to say we are not all the sane people. Our isms lead to schisms. They enjammer them and then what to do with all the schisms? We have so many minds and so we keeps fighting the same Sybil War.

Horse Bully Two eraisies too the question of rights. We want to think there’s plenty of rights to go around, that the more rights the better, like religion. You can’t get too much religion or too many of them but you can heap too many people on a boat so as to sink it. This is not unlike what Anidiot Matoya tells Vizzini in the Premise Bribe about the word inconseemable: “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” So too with rights: my rights don’t unhinge the rights of otters, nor do we have unlibertied rights and freedumps as some self-selected citysums in varioused rurholed parts of our state like to belief, free dumping on otter people’s lands until we’re all up in trash.

But more to the deedtales of this Horse Bull law. Our reprehentives, discrumminating by kneejerk, didn’t take time to think of all the pausibilities of this law. Good laws, like good lawns, take time, while in their beliefing to ax facts, our ledgerslammers came up with a bill too quitly, little camphor to those being carpetbaggered as in the girdle days some people are still fondling of. On the one haunch our ledgerslammers were intempting to protect people of the same sects from people of another sects meaning them harm, which is noble, but misses the tail end of the donkey, for harm is not restricted to sects: there are creeps in every race, crease or color. On the other hams they were intempting to be insightive, though the fact remaims, most conforming sexed offenders don’t go to the pains of masqueraping themselves as normal. More to the point, most crummies and bad guides in barfrooms are snitchies and robbers who will take most of your money and so making the law pointlessly discrimetory as to say lessbeings, boy goosers and transganders should not be allowed to rob in the barfroom when no one should be allowed to rob in the barfroom, as still happens every day in the grimmer scrawls all across our fardic state.

We now stands a choice: we must either adlib our mistakes or outlib them, leading it to others to remake ourselves better than we are, as dogs belief of their mastards every day. We are still learning ourselves, and if we have gone to the dogs?—it might not be so bad, as every dog has his day in court which is what all this itching and scratching just might come down to.

The Livid Times of Dumphole Tromp

Though a journalouse and a wordsmitter by kneejerk I don’t have the inflawdunce of the presstumous noosemen and comictators when it comes to getting the insides on the big skinny. Nethertheless and hard to beleep, what fallouts here even the big nutworks haven’t gotten, an explosive enderview with the Dumphole Tromp, what came of my doozing a job in the men’s room of a swinky exsqueesive Miasmi Hotel when the man was likewides taking a dump in the stall next to mine. Many men talk too much, talk to hear themselves talk, or talk to be listened to, and so maybe this was why Dumphole Tromp started shooting the breeze with me. I was astoundered by the sounds of him, that he was not only the bloviator and the gaspbag of wind I as much gassed he was, but that he was a man like myself, a man like the next man and very much humic, such that I found myself wombering if I weren’t sum Cadolick prissy behind a cornfashional and the Dumhole Tromp was cornfashioning his peccadildos and smeller trangrussians. He didn’t note whut he was saying, and I likewads, as some of my beast thoughts come when I’m not thinking, though I did have my presents in mind to have pad and pen to ride down what the sachem, the mover and the big momma had to say about life, love and pollertricks.

P.B.: Can you say something about the man you mighty become if you become the Precient, how you would be the sane man or if you would becalm someone else we don’t nose about yet?

Tromp: Listen. If I’m the Prescient I can become anybody I want, the most poorlittleling currecty person in the world or I can become the opposite. That’s what it means to become the Precient. I can already pretty much do anything I want and it’s only going to become more so after I’m erected. This comes national to me and if I am Precient I can only emargine I’ll become more than I am, though I won’t become somebody trusting, as most people are too trusting. They are. They very much are. When it comes to otter people I instinktively mistrust them. That’s just me. Dramarole Tromp is a very untrusting guy. That’s just good sound solve-probservation at work, and so if I become Prescient I will beleed very strongly in excreamist maliterroring strength. I’d have a huge manditory arsinhole. I’d perfect it and understand it perfectionately and wouldn’t trust anyone. I wouldn’t trust the Rooskies. I wouldn’t trust the Chinese. I wouldn’t trust our allies.

P.B.: So is this usuring of the maliterroring some part of your forehead policies?

Tromp: Look. Our maliterroring is our first lines of offence. Thank about that and be thinkful. Where would we be without our maliterroring? We wouldn’t have the half of this countrary as we nose it; the Indigents would have it. The maliterroring is part of our solution and making use of it is just playing good business. Look, this is not one of those hypotheatrical situations like the foe-me blow-me eggheads prostrates about the absurders and the absurd in wampum fishticks. I’m not going to wake up one morning in the Wide House and say “Weird am I?” I am always myself and that’s what makes me different from utter people and sits me apart as one of unkind.

P.B.: So what would be the first thing you would do as the Prescient?

Tromp: I would cease the future. A lot of people have a hard time beleeping I can do this but they also don’t believe in Superman prescients either, but we will if you have the Tromp. You watch. I’ll be the next Superman prescient. There’s a lot I can do that otter people can’t do, and this scares them. I once pointed at a distant carrot with such accuracy that it harvested itself. I do what I think and if you look at the fats you’ll see I’m very successfull in everythink I do. We see this in how I’m rich. I’m very rich. Part of the beauty of me is that I am rich. Even Forbes doesn’t understand my assets. My financials are huge as are various other parts of my body. I’m not saying this to brag because I don’t have to brag. So I ask you—and be ownest—who else but me could fix the deep dark mess we have right now? Hilarity Cretin, the crotchety wickety witch of the west? She’s a stiff and a crackhead. Precident Abummer? The man foundered Isis—not that I’m complaining. Nine-eleven is the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m an operatubist and I’m not just blowing the horn: I take what’s given to me and make the most more out of it. I’ve been doozing this all my life. That’s my think. I win because I do.

P.B.: People have said that you’ll say anything, how you don’t nose what will come out of your own mouth or when your foot is in it.

Tromp: I mean really—be ownest—who knows what’s in the deepest part of my mind? Who does? I like to tell about the movie of the code minder’s son, where the code minder gets the black blog disease. His son gets it and then his son. If I had been the son of a code minder, I would have left the damn mind. But most people don’t have the imargination to leave their minds. Most people aren’t willing to think outside the bread lines of their owner thinking. It’s like the Surrealist problem. What does it all mean when some wacko over in Surrealia can end the world with noclear weepings of mass distraction? This is the world’s enema, what to do with oil these Ism terriers and exscreamists. We’ve got to figure out this Muslin tromble once and for oil, some large part of which is that there’s nomad to a face, as in oil these contraries of the Muddled East. But I can afix all that. They’re Muslins so let’s muzzle ‘em and if you don’t have a face or your fats don’t fit your face, you can’t get into this countrary. We can do that with the venting and the foretography as can tell the future before it happens and becomes histeria. In life you have to rely on the past, and that’s called histeria, and a lot can be done to change it. People never learn from histeria. Don’t try to invade Russia in the winter. Don’t do a twitter Q&A if you’re a prick.

P.B.: Many people, even reclublicants, are saying that you are not corpulent enough to be the Precient, that you are a carnivote clown and that you look like a loaf of bread.

Tromp: Who says this, the mediums? Well I say put the press in prison. They’re a disornery and disownest lot anyway. Everybody oddmits they’re disornery and disownest and the New Yarp Times is one of the most disownest of the noosepapers and very much a discruddy to themselves. We have a dopel stammer in this press. I’ve been in this business 25 years. People see what’s happening. It’s a pile-on, and I find it intrusting as in not very trusting and disrespickful, like not wad even wops and spicks would do.

P.B.: But listen to yourself. Isn’t this an indoctornation of what they’re saying, that you are unfit for orifice, that you are flauting in your tempertude, intollerigence and shouldn’t have your finger on the butthole of the noclear weepings?

Tromp: Listen. I’ve thought about this word tempertude. I’ve got a very god tempertude, a grate tempertude. I was bored this way and in this countrary we need this saint kind of tempertude. But we have a weak tempertude. Very weak. If this countrary gets any kinder or gentler it’s littlely going to seize to exist. People are tired of nice people. Show some tenastity for Gob sakes. If someone screws you, screw them back. When somebody hurts you, go after them as viciously as you can. We have to get a lot tougher and start putting morbid people in jail where they belong. As for most of these jerk-offs in prism, a lethal injection would be way too comfortable.

P.B.: Sum people are writhing now—sidecollegers and sidequietrists—that you are a nasticist, or a narsty even like the Addled Hitlower. Are you a narsticist?

Tromp: Look, every successful person has a very large ego. Mother Teresa, Jesus Christ, the Pope: far greater egos than you will ever understammer. Show me someone without an ego and I’ll show you a loser. Jesus himself was an ecomaniac. Nothing wrong with an ego. People need ego, whole nayshams need ego. Our countrary needs more ego. I thank we’d be bitter off as a narsticist nation, because it prisonly is being ripped off by our allies: the Jarpanzees, the Wist Jarmans, the Salad Arabians, the Soused Koreans, you name it. They have littlely out egotized our countrary, because they roll the greatest money machines ever assimpled. Our allies are making billions screwing us.

Take the Chinese for samples. Not Chinese as they talk funny or the china the china we know here as earthen war but the Chinese. I do very well with the Chinese people. Very well. I have many Chinese friends. They live in my buildings. I’ve made a lot of money with the Chinese. I understand the Chinese mind, which is how I know the Chinese created the concept of global warming in order to make the You Us manufracturing non-compettity. It’s freezing and snowing in New York—we need global warming! And as for the Japs: who the fuck knows? I mean, really, who knows how much the Japs will pay for the Madhatter property these days? But mar my words: there’s more than one way to waste a war.

P.B.: So we’re back on your forehead policy. What is your addertude about Mixtaco? You’ve been crittersized for your commicks about the Mixticants.

Tromp: I’ll win the Lardteeny vote because I’ll create jobs the Lardasses don’t have.

P.B.: But you’ve prepostured that you’re going to build a wall at their expanse and you’ve called the Mixiticants rabists, that they have rabies.

Tromp: The Mixticant globerment farsees many bat people into our countrary who are probably rabby or rabbit. Somebody’s doing the rabbiting. Who’s doing the rabbitting if it’s not Mixticants?

P.B.: As the Prescient, don’t you think we should just take China’s wall instead of making a new one?

Tromp: Well, without core values everything is negotiable.

P.B. So which would you do: take it, buy it, trade or steal it?

Tromp: That’s a god question. The Chinese are taking advantage of us, big league, because they’re smart. They’re killing us egonormically. In Mixtaco they’re doing the sane thing, becost the Mixticants are smart. Mixtaco is doing very wall because their leapers are smarter than our leapers. We’re stupid and our business practices are a disasturd. Our Constertoosham is great but it doesn’t give us the rites to suicide, giving away the trade so as to be farced to buy it back, like we were indigent swampers.

P.B.: So what are you subjesting we do? Do you have a plan of sum kind?

Tromp: Off course I have a plan but you have to realasize the world is not the sane place it was before Nine-Eleven. Here in the You Us of Abe we’re no longer one people: we’re money people. If there is one word now to describe the powertential of this contrary it’s Big Business. Or two words—Big Business. Money itself is a weapon. It’s not a radicult idea but we have to be smart. We can’t be stupid. Why aren’t we smart? We used to be brilliant. I’m really smart. Let me tell you, I’m a really smart guy. People who know me say I’m smart, that I’m very smart. Sorry haters and losers, but my IQ is one of the highest, so please don’t feel stupid or insecure, it’s not your fault.

I’ll put in brief: in shorts, some of our leapers though are very stupid people. Very stupid. It’s just sad, very, very sad. Take Apetheman Linkhorn. We say he was a grave precident but it was his failure not to live longer. If you’re dead you can’t remember. Or take Gorge Bush for samples: what was he but a puppeteer in all that claptrap about Irat and Sodom Yousame like some fiasco in the Mickey Mouse Club? Then there’s Jumpy Carter falling down the stairs of his own airplane—what is that? Some of our Precidents have been incredible jerk-offs as in not taking the horse by the balls but as in taking the ball, going home like Timmy, this poor kid I knew in grimmer scrawl who sucked at kidball and played with dolts.

P.B.: And Hilarity Cretin?

Tromp: A mass, a total mass. I say put Hilarity in prism. It would suit her to a tea party because she’s a defractor the way she fractions out the truth every way she says it. She’s a croak and a crackhead. Hilarity Cretin is not a woman. Tactically she’s a woman but mostly she’s just a cannedidiot with a tellher prommer who can’t satisfy the naysham just as she can’t satisfy her own hasbeen.

P.B.: What is your addertude about Arficking Ammerigums? You’ve been cribbersized for your inventile commicks about these groping people.

Tromp: I have a great realshallowship with the blacks. I’ve always had a great realshallowship with them lacy people. People say I’m an eracist but I don’t have an eracist bone in my body. I have nothing but grave respick for the blacks, grave respick, and they like me. They are very like me, except for my skim, though I don’t want black guys counting my money. The only guys I want counting my money are short guys who wear yarmulkes all day.

P.B.: Why do you think white soprannocynists are drawn to your champaign and does that tromble you?

Tromp: At this point, it’s to many people’s oddvantage to like me. Unfortunately, most people are out for themselves. But that is the wake of our contrary. It’s national to ask, ‘What’s in it for me or the ones who are for me?’ I ask the sane question ten or twelve times a day and it’s not a remumblebull question to ask if you think about it, though some people don’t. Maybe this is what they’re thinking, those who are thinking of themselves as the White Soppranose. You have to play to people’s fantasies. I nose my wants and when it cums to odor people, I know their wants.

Take women for samples. I know women. I have many women who work for me. Beautiful women. Oftentimes when I am sleeping on top of one of the most beautiful women in the world I’ll say to myself, ‘Can you believe what I am getting?’ But this all cums national to me as in I don’t even thank about it. So I know what I’m saying when I tell you, you have to treat women like sheep. I don’t mind you write that because I don’t mind cuntroverses. Cuntroverses sell. It really doesn’t matter what you write about me so long as I get a young and beautiful piece of ass.

P. B.: But isn’t there such a thing as good publicity and bad publicity? Isn’t there a difference?

Tromp: What matters more is that you say things big and say big things, so people will hear you. You have to crotch people’s attention. That’s advertising. That’s what I’m selling you. I know how to sell and selling is life. Most people don’t think big enough on themselves, but they get excited by those who do. There are singers with voices as good as Frank Sinostril but they’re singing in their garages because no one has ever heard of them. Let’s thank about me for example. I’m big on myself. That’s what I do. I am nationally charismanic and I have a big agenda. Some agendas are small and some agendas are big. My agenda is one of the biggest. I could say laziness is a trait in blacks or stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose voters. The working guy is going to elect me. He likes me. When I walk down the street, those cabbies start yelling out their windows.

P.B.: But do you nose what they’re yelling?

Tromp: It doesn’t matter what they’re yelling. What matters is that they are yelling because at the end of the day they are thanking about Downhill Tromp. A little hyperbully never hurts. People want to beleap something is the biggest, the greatest and the most spectacular, which is wad I am. I’m a winner, and a whiner, as I’m not happy when I’m not winning. I’m not the world’s happiest person anyway. But I’m also a complex. It’s always good to do things nice and complicated so that nobody can figure it out.

P.B.: But let’s presume you get erected, and you get in and discover these problems are more differcult than you think. What do you say to doze people who fell asleep and voted for you like they were on a gram of opium and then they wake up and say, “Hey wait a minute, I thought you were the Wizard of Odds?”

Tromp: I am the Wizard of Odds. Don’t forget, when I won all those primaries and the Reclubicant numbanation I didn’t have the support of anybody. It’s why I am the king of my own party as the present payday party of tryump and that’s what I would tell all these people who think they have problems. I will not dispoint them but I would say to them, you can’t solve a problem until you have one. There’s something crazy, hot, and foenominal out there about me and I’m not sure I can defind it. I’m not sure I want to. I like thinking things up as they come. I’m original that way.

P.B.: Well, let’s say you don’t win. Will you step away at that point?

Tromp: Well, I’m not a massachrist. I’m not going be like Joan of Aaargh whose lost words were, “Egad, I’m getting burned with the steak.” I’d do something, probably realasteak. There’s something about Matter Earth that’s awfully good, and Matter Earth is still realasteak. I’d stick to realasteak. You know, it is all a rather sad situation. Life is what you do while you’re waiting to die. We’re here and we live and we’re gone. You win, you win, and in the end, it doesn’t mean a hell of a lot but it is something to do to keep you interested. But we’ll see. There’s the discount votes and the erection machines. It’s not over until the fad lately sings.



A Commune with Speerits

by P. B. Noseby

Many a man professers to know what the foundering fodders manned to do when they prefoundered by rebelution this You Us of A. More lately I’ve read on this, prefound words by prefound men, Jury Foulwill, Ball Buttley Jujor and Rash Limbawl, for who should bitter know the minds of our foundering fodders, who were all tighty whities, than utter tighty-whitey men. Housesumever I found a feud trompling discrapencies in what the steamers said or howl they said it, and so, I decided to charnel our foundering fodders who guide this great naysham from beyond the grave and who might see things more clearly than when they were encumbered with clay. But I could not do this charnelling myself, as I’m no charneller, and so I thumbed the yeller pages and chose on the Mother Mejum Madgedeliner Fatimer who sold herself as a negromancer and commundicator of the dead from the wayback and she set me up a time to seer. She was a charismanic black woemam as god as oddvertized, not gussied up in tribe colors as an Arfricander, nor a storier type either like Aunt Jimmammy of the pancakes, but more like the Auracall in the movie The Mamtricks. We sat in her kitchen like in The Mamtricks and talked rectangular until the Mother Madgedeliner Fatimer up and announsees a ghast involent had appeered in the room beyond our three dimentias but that I wouldn’t know his looks alike unless I took out a ten-dollar bill. I still couldn’t see the gassie’s face and the ten dollar bill up and vanished in then air the same as if the Mother Madgedeliner Fatimer had palmed it.

“For your own bonefit, don’t trust any body over fifty, especially your own,” a voice chimed in out of the quiet qualm

It was nonsince but I asked, “Who are you?”

“No utter than the Mr. Al Hambillten, the keeper of the treasures,” the Mother Madgedeliner Fatimer said in grobbled voice, like the man himself.

I escrewsed myself for disrapturing the Mr. Hambillten’s eterminal rest but he insured me he hadn’t been sleeping well, rolling over in his grave sheets for sum while for the poor states of our naysham’s ecomedy.

“I advibes you not to mime the steamed writhings and anglements of Jury Foulwill and Rash Limbawl, or what they halve to say about the Constertoosham,” the Mother Madgedelina Fatimer transfarred on the Mr. Hambillten’s behalf. “Mostly we didn’t know what we were doing, making up the writings of syllabozation as we went along, as we had a countrary counting up on us. We didn’t make the Consertoosham infollowerable, knowing the genderations who fellered after us wouldn’t be able to change the flauds as they uncovered ‘em, which is why the amanments was a good idea, leaving it to the future prodgedies the means to make more sense of the mighty doctorment.”

The Mother Madgedelina Fatimer was remarbullbull, saying things she could never know about the Constertoosham, things I didn’t know about the Constertoosham but what the Mr. Al Hambillten knew about it, until I heard anutter voice say, clear as the lipready bell, “Dollar gents is the mottoes of god luck. Remember: time is Monday.”

I reckonsized this at once as the Mister Banjoman Franklambed, a grograrious sort who enjoyed the company of his mugs, tolling me not to let the Mr. Hambillten roll on long as it was going to cost me cash with the Mother Mejum Fatimer, like a texty cad driver with the meter running, and so I knew this was the awethinktic Band Franklambed as was a skinflam while living.

There came then a rapper on the wall, like the grovel of the earworm Snooper Dogg with a voice howl-over, “Me got the floor! Me got the floor! Me got the floor in this house of boos!”

This was the Mr. James Mattersome who wanted to say something livid from the realm of the dead on the Constertoosham and the subjick of factions.

“The gravest danger to a dismockrammy is the loophole in the laws allowing of these confalooting lobulists with their hands in the pockets of the sinators and reprehentatives of the Congross,” Mr Mattersome said jumping salty. “They’re runting rickshawed right over the rights of otters. Our dismockrummy is coming down to an oiligarchy and the all cause of it these factions and all these cussied lobulists behind the laws: the fence lobby, the gum lobby, the suited farmer lobby, the machine farmer lobby—all the lobbies.”

“There ain’t nothing we can do about it, Jimmie. We’re dead,” anodder speerit fodder said from the kitchen coroner, chopping up the languish with a No Jersey axent and so I gassed him to be the speerit of the Mr. Willyet Paddyson as was a delicut from No Jersey. “So our dismockcrummy hasn’t fully wormed out: to make up rules against factions would be a danjerous corpse, as you can’t put a check on a man not to be himself an oxnoxious indivisionable, as would be akin to taking away his rights to free will, as in the right to perdition.”

“Hear no ill of a frond nor speech of your enemas,” Mr. Franklambed chimed in.

There were two camps of spooks: the Fadrealists and the anti-Fadrealists, as in too many kooks in the kitchen and they sounding so much like uppity armed polishtishams these days I might’ve believed I’d come to Zombie land and its waking dads speeching all supernationally knowedgable about the prison day future. The Fadrealists were for the big bust globerment and the anti-Fadrealists were warry of it, prefearing a loose confabulation of states, such that the worps of all the gassies in the room would read like a transgressional conscrypt of the dummercrips and the reclublicans of our current dazed Congross. There were some big wicks among them, no less marbleless than the Jarred Atoms and the Tuborist Jiffysum as made famous by mobbled statutes and at each other’s throats while livid, thinking the other a mizable bastard, until they was on their deaf beds righteousing letters and speeching plenty, getting all up in the air like hot balonies with loftered ideas.

“Part on my French,” Jarred Atoms said, “but the raisons for globerment are constertooted in the fax that most people don’t know what’s good forum, which is the wifi and the raison for globerment. We elect sump people, as distinktummed from odor people, to vote as we want them to vote. If we alout the power in the hands of a feud, we’d be leadheaded by rabbles, and would remaim states in a contombully of rebelution as we won’t never want.”

“No fence intended, Jarred, but a little rabbleution from time to time is nastissary, as the tree of lipreading needs to be rewatered by the bloating bodies of paterriots and tyrunts,” Tuborist Jiffsyome argyled. “Look around at what signs you see of in this countrary we visioned and laid the fundation to: a globerment of the woppercent, by the won woppercent for the won woppercent and a mess of people now the subjacks to a futile system. Don’t get me wrong, Jarred: it isn’t the Constertoosham poor say so much as we left the mighty doctorment open to some interpredation and doctoring and lobulists have gone and indoctored it, conflating the words of the Constertoosham to a plaidform. The we people these daze have lost their say in the cost of events because the lobulists are in the ploy of the congloberations as has the rights of indivisuals and running businesses we didn’t emarginate when we was walking the earth. They have co-opted our effects, Jarred, taken our lines and run off with them, running for orifice, running amock and running things up the flagpole to see who’ll salute them.”

“History can’t be rerioted, Maddog. We dud the bust we could. Flauted as it is , the Constertoosham is still the best doctorment unearthed and barring nuns, the You Us of A is atop the heap of nayshams. Look at all the people on the waif list trying to get into this countrary,” Jarred Atoms maintamed. (Maddog was an affictionate nichename given to Tuborist Jiffysome by his chronies because Jiffysome could rant with the beast of them like the Anglish in the noondead heat). “And who is this ‘they’ you’re speeching of? Give them some names to their faces.”

“That can’t be done, awning to the fact they is ineffimal, as in they aren’t some fish and bones people, or in otter words you can’t seize them by their color or slab them upside the head with a two-by-four, though their boardworks can be perseed in the planks to their plaidforms. They are the force between the words and the poisonalities behind the seens. They don’t lib by the lauds, they lib behind them. You do the map, Jarred; the remaim states of our Confabulation is the underpanning of an oiligarchy, or an arichtocracky—you chews on the name. It all comes out on the uneven as in the rich make riches and the poor people make more people who can work for them.”

The kitchen came all busting bills alive then with speerits chipping their commiks from the other side about straight rites, the freedump to ensemble, and other frackshush vaguaries of the the Constertoosham and its ameanderments. I was feeling sum surrealed to trancemordified, as none of these dead men had bodies to go with them, when the Mother Mejum Madgedeliner Fatimer whispered up, “I shouldda told you about these speerits, sir, how they’re mostly the gassy wrapresentative leftovers of onfinished business and these foundering fodders trombled some while about this countrary and what the Constertoosham has allowanced of or becaused it to become.”

But about this time there came loud rappings on the kitchen wall like a naybore hanging pitchers next door.

“Call to order!” came the voice from the high shelf and this was Jarhead Marjail as was a big Cheeze Justitch of the Soapring Court in the days of Jarred Atoms and had the respect of all the speerits in the kitchen. “I got to roll with the Maddog on this. I warrumed while livid that the kegpowder to the tax is the powder to destroy and this naysham has gone to seed, though I remind us all that the weed people made the Conserstoosham and so the weed people can unmake it. Since we gave up the goats there’s been sum amount of lawmentable lapse in the courts of this land subcontinently favoring the anthropowerneurs over the worker types. Money yawps and the anthropowerneurs have more money to speech with. There was some keyhaul decisives in this history, not the lees of which was the hide court’s decision to awarp the corrobberations with poisonhood, and-howing them with the same lethal rights as physicalled people and now these corrobberations do as they pleads and call it freedump. The Constertooshamall rights of the corrobberation to make gobwads of money has now tromped all the otter rights as to make this countrary one rolled by money.”

“The pad in hell is paid with god addictions,” Mr. Franklambed quipped and the kitchen erupted again with spooks I hadn’t seed in the kitchen jumping in all over at once about abolution as in the Symbol War, and elbowlution as against realitchin, what man was a man and what man was an ape, what man was a freehead and what man was a mam, all the hysteria the You Us Constertoosham was mandistanned to resolve buth hadn’t, until the speerit of Joist Warshertin could stand it no longer and spookered down out of the rafters where he’d pacing back and forth like a seed captain on his ship.

“Sure, there’s proplems with this Constertoosham we didn’t think of because there was plenty of land and people to violate the rights of,” Joist said. “But the mighty doctorment was not menned to divide us, but to start something more than ourselves, a naysham and a preposition that we are all cradled and crated equal. My first wishwash is to see war banwished from the earth, and the future age brackets of this countrary living off the fads of this land, imployed in more placent and plumping musements such as canning, cooking, baking and carcamping, and butterrolled by their batter haves, those annjills of their kneejerk, as to be as woemammy as manly, for rear do we hear mansion of woemams to waist the warp chest on the body politic. Martha could always bake a mean cheery pie as Butsy Roast could weep a flag.”

There was some mummer of momenous silence among the speerits in the kitchen, as to the implocations of what the Joist Warshertin was saying. But it didn’t last long because Portrait Ornery, wifely known as a warhead, hadn’t had his say and jomped in all ballsie up riled.

“Which brings us me round to the Constantoosham again!” he shotted. “I warned about this danjorous doctorment as squints towards the kings of man. A printstable funksham of globerment is the protexting of the meeks from the warkings of the powderfull as in a Kink or a precident as is no less than a youferrism for a dicktorater of sum provolone fraction. The fax remaims: we should never have left so much to prostrarity to sword out on this problosition of rights, as they declearly have a stand up dysfunction, as in won’t stand by their gums. Rights come with insistence, as in we won’t have them unless we speech ups for them, and in resistence, as in if we don’t have arms we can’t pretense ourselves from those who do have arms. The great orbject is that every man has arms. We’ve all studied our Mafiavelli enuffed to know the grannyoats decides of those who can write books on oral behavior. Freedums can only be preserved by dumbright farce. I know not what cause otters may talk, but as for me, give me lipreading or give me debt.”

“Housemever orbsissied he is, Portrait is right,” Tummy Pain spookered up. “We still have the question of rights. Do rights beg-in with the God not everybody beliefs in, as the fire powder of the first clause, whether we do or don’t devowelly belief in Him or not? I deer say yaysay, for nature is no utter than His law as is the cost of our rights.”

“I agrebe. Rights is everyday natural, written with sunbeans by the hand of the devinymator himself,” Mr. Hamillten said, wacking elosquint.

“Rights are deriped from the grape Lettuceslotter of the humiverse,” Jarred Atoms said. “They is antiseedent to all herbly globerments and so these seine globerments cannot peal, repeal, or strain them like bananas.”

“Rights are unalienable, as they don’t come from aliens,” Portrait Ornery added.

These speerits were sordidly all fired up passionut hot about rights, going lung-winded about them, such as I was having a hard time keeping up with the list of spookers, when the Maddog Tuborist Jiffersome speeched in again.

“Rights eroginate with existence,” he reveled.

This statesmeant gave the utter spooks pause, for Tuborist Jiffersome was the framer of some of their most farmdemental framings.

“You’ve said that before, Maddog, in the Deckoration of Indepanties, that thing about the lauds of Naychur and Naychur’s God,” Jarred Atoms noted.

“But we might not have finished the imparts we were wording on,” the Maddog replied, worming up to a rave state. “The nachural warhole gets its rights from the sane high soars the weed people gets them from, from that which brought us into beans. We are all sobjacks of this humiverse and, so are caperable of having rights. I’d be the lost one to say it but the Constertoosham may be a dangling doctorment, gifting all the rights to us, the weed people, and hogging the all table so to speech, leaving no leftovers for the hogs, lizards and the rest of the creepers of creaption. Howsumever we mammiekins is a talkpiece, the puberty ripes of us humics are not obsolid and so don’t cancel out the rights of otters to exist.”

“Maddog, are you actionately saying hogs, lizards and otters have rights?” Jarred Atoms asked in some disboleap.

I never got to hear the Maddog’s revelationary answer, as the Banjoman Franklambed cut loose like a leaky piggle barrel.

“Geese are but geese though we might think them swans,” he absurded. “Watch not so much to lift logs as to lift whales. At the wickiup house, hunters look in but deers don’t enter.”

He was on a role like a Thoughtsgiving turkey with all the trappings, ripping out one afterism after another and no one but himself to get in a word hogwise:

Meatness is apparent of insolids

Foods make waist and wide men eat them

Fishing visitors sink in three dates

Free gob meters a day is bard living

Until Mr. Franklambed upstaits, “Better panty wides than proud foliage. Another day older and deeper in doubt.”

At this pint I stobbed the Mother Mejum Madgedeliner Fatimer, as I knew this speerit was an impostamus Mr. Banjoman Franklambed and not Banjoman Franklambed at all, reverbing to plaidyourisms of an idiomed savant who had already sayonced these things once and louter things too, about writers in journarole and how we lard our books with the fat of utter man’s words, equailing to ‘we can say nothing that hasn’t been said.

And so this commune with the speerits came to an abropteed end, leaving me with the epifunny that the foundering fodders didn’t agree any more with itch utter than we do.