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Thou art to me more sweet 

than a thousand milligrams of synthetic sucrose

thou art to me more noble

than all the defrocked priests in Babylon

thou art to me more normal

than all the split infinities ever to collapse in this world or the next

thou art to me more natural

than  the bible

Sgt. Preston and Anne of Green Gables

Battling their way out of Lord Flogg’s fog in the Londinium Tower, Batman and Alfred, in a cab, and Robin in the Batmobile, head for Ffogg’s estate to rescue Batgirl. Ffogg and Lady Peasoup, discovering their lethal fog pellets are too stale to finish off Batgirl, go for a fresh supply and learn that Batman has entered the grounds. At the dungeon, Ffogg pushes Batman down the steps and throws the fresh gas pellets after him. Robin, meanwhile, has been bitten by a deadly bee, and Lady Peasoup instructs Prudence to take him to the girl’s dorm to die while they all go to the Tower of Londinium. Dispersing the lethal fog with Anti-Lethal Fog Batspray, Batman files away at Batgirl’s chains, and Ffogg, realizing he’s pressed for time, makes final plans for escape to Argentuela in a private plane.

We all remember the legend of the naming of the artichoke. How Artemis was choked by baby Jesus, and from her eyeballs sprang the plant we in English call artichoke, and in Swahili is called Thumbelina’s Thistle.

It was too late for a clever retort.
It was too late for a clever retort.

Take it as a given that the Harried Ainu have more words for entropy than we have words for the Hairy Ainiu.

And given that if they spoke as clearly as do you and I, they wouldn’t have such a miserable existence, 

Then let me recite one episode from the transcripts collected by D. , one of the first western theologists to try to straighten out the heathens. 

We were pennies from heaven on our honeymoon. I put a drop in the tank at Leadville. A dollar on the horses in Black Diamond. I almost caught Morton’s halitosis as I was getting too big for my britches.

Was the season of the crickets in the hard drive.

Michael Gilleland
Laudator Temporis Acti

Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound 115 (tr. Alan H. Sommerstein):
What sound, what scent has been wafted to me, unseen,
from gods, from mortals, or from both together?

Ennius, Annals 451 Skutsch (tr. E.H. Warmington):
And the trumpet in terrible tones taratantara blared.

Titinius, fragment 20 Ribbeck:
Meanwhile a stinking breeze assaults the nose.

Vergil, Aeneid 3.228:
An awful sound amid foul stench.

Dante, Inferno 21.139 (tr. John D. Sinclair):
And he made a trumpet of his rear.

William Shakespeare, King John 5.2.117:
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

John Milton, Paradise Lost 1.236-237
A singéd bottom all involved
With stench and smoke.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Orpheus,” lines 35-37:
What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint,
But more melodious than the murmuring wind
Which through the columns of a temple glides?

Madame Mac Méod (future Mata Hari) éxécutant des danses brahmaniques dans la bibliothèque du Musée Guimet de Paris *13-3-1905

This is the behind-the-scenes account of the deeds of one Harvie Winestein, late of Hollywood, one among the many who shall be renamed maneless, though that thought trigger the hairs in your fundament. 

Man’s favorite sport, according to valedictorians, is knocking up the better half. Legend has it that Winestein proved this to the nth degree. But legends have a half life.  We now know less than we used to, and are forced to invoke fuzzy logic and high-school chemistry.

Setting out in the tub of our redemption to do the autobiography of this Harvie, also known as Shaggy Dog, and the Creature of the Black Habit, we met with a headwind to choke a horse. The best we could muster was to cover our asses as the ice closed in. 

When Harvie was casting for Been Her, he let out so much line that his leader got entangled, and the backup tripped on their shoelaces. 

His wife travelled with him to exotic locales to reenact scenes from the great books, according to the decision of the wise ones, western as well as eastern.

It was in the fall of the year that the Hairy Ainu abducted Saint Pocahontas, as she and her retinue made their way along the route now known as the Scallop’s Gonad. It was a major victory for the Ainu in their battle against Saint Peter, who had been sent by the devil to put a twist on things.

The victory celebrations went beyond the believable as you can imagine.

Xenomanes didn’t arrive until  festivities had petered out. There were few survivors. Their divergent versions of shed little light.