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.

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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.