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.
