Xmas carol wiggly: A history of their world in [no] time | Episode #2: Whimwham space in outer mace

‘It must have been the soggy rudder fitted to Elon’s Martian-minded wheelchair-shaped smuggler ship. Sure as the mushy stool I’ve been coming to terms with in sequel to my inextinguishable passion for the plum tree’ says Ordre Royal de Victoria Supreme Commander Baracca Handsome O–Bomb. ‘The carcass must have crashed and left Elon strolling in disheartening search of his dearest treasured astronoughts fore and aft. Once the thought got through his thick head that they were nowhere to be found, his roaming hit the skids as fast as the feigned craft and ordnance we the People billionise him for. And there you have him.’–

‘I’m sure, Baracca Handsome. You can’t help running roughshod over him, can you! But we have to discount your hypothesis to the full. It is He—The Honourable Commander-in-Chief Flying Fleet & Fleeting Ground Forces Elon Mush. And he was not on the Moon Smuggler Rooster—MOONROO. Much as he could remind you of your mushy evacuation, in certain his vitaminised water was laced with Martian demise bloom. Lycioplesii martiani flos—this we do vouch upon our commendable experts. The experts never blunder nor fudge, do they! One of our Pterodactylus novus var. martianus holotypes from our excavation sites in Belligerence Town, Senatical Avenue, Mars, fled and followed through the path recognisers sprinkled along by WHIMWHAM ZERO-ENGINE FIN-EQUIPPED SPACEWORTHY SPECTACULOUS LITTLE POUCET, OUT-AND-OUTER ELON’S LATEST BREATHTAKING MINDBOGGLING MILKY WHEY IMPLORATION MANUFACTURE, ON A MAIDEN VOYAGE AD LIBITUM IN OUTER MACE. We have now apprehended that whilst conveniencing the voyager out and out, the path recognisers may nonetheless inflame our xenodinos’ desire to go and visit in the Earth.’ The pterodactyl was part and parcel of the Superlative DOD Plan—in extenso Diddly-Squat Obliviscence Dementia Plan—a robust egalitarian intent to make history into a deadpan humoured matter. The strikingly paleontologist-witted fowl mentioned—Pterodactylus novus var. martianus—is unutterably crazy for the bloom produced by the Latua venenata var. rubra, a variety of L. venenata secretly cultivated in the presidential lawn on Mars. Politpreneur Academia Squadron Leader [plus the previously stated insignia] Mark Hayloft Klutzberg had deduced the Pt. nov. var. martianus being involved by detecting [via the greatly reliable experts of course] gross traces of the pterosaliva in Elon’s favourite tumbler—the one serving his vitaminic purpose.

Adagio through the day: Effusions of a labbian | No. 3: Hybridising

The vast majority of the population (VMP) comprehend the abacist as being one entity they do not divide up into the single human individua it is comprised of. The abacist—imperator of counting, amiably in_exhisting shuffler, imperatorious guarantor of monetary abacination. The abacist. As the VMP come to spy out the imperator of whom they are the minder, it is cognised by them as being indeed an entity to not ever be meddled with. Not even by them that have created it.

Although the imperator has always been he, he is irresistibly regarded by the VMP as effectively being it. Thus, it is contemplated as standing off conscience. Most far from any he related idea. The it notion is susceptive of being phantasised no end. The it notion is formidably pliant for the feeble VMP to be com_pliant with it. The abacist is a supple for the hardening of the VMP to such a pitch that they will not be capable of embracing the it notion, though being disposed to. They shall thus be disposed of by that which is it. The abacist—the it—flies away not to return ever to them phantasising beyond measure and thus docilely accepting their not returning. The VMP will always be leaning over backwards to amalgamate with the abacist whilst not ever being competent with its flitting intelligence. They shall always lean beside the cushion, not ever being [en]able[d] to get to be it. The abacist—accostable yet recondite imperator. The minder is to lose unto the ruler.

Now that in accordance with the VMP’s wishful sunken conduct the imperator is it, it strengthens to not ever return to being he. He must be it, which is its famous purpose. Here famous should be intended as both ordinary and superior. The imperator is conscientially everywhere, as ordinary matter; and also it is heightened (LAT celsus) off (LAT ex), highed away from anywhere, imaged by conscience as being so far and away from conscience. The imperator—abacist—is extolled by conscience, thus being made not conscience.

Now, the deity ex_merges from the abacus and cuts across the VMP. The immense ruse is manipulated into money, which pours over them. The abacus is hybridised—assumingly arrogated—by them. They elevate the abacus to being immaculate. Immaculate being. Pure. Not ever to be shamed—they have hybridised it. Shame is not their game.

Xmas carol wiggly: A history of their world in [no] time | Episode #1: Elon Mush and the Martian dino

Requiescant all the zumbis—God Nzambi of the Gubernatorial Chivalry of the Grand Seal has pushed the Excrementitious Bottle through the rays of His Own Grandness. Canty—canty be the zumbis. Let them wiggle—wiggy zumbis.

The Cavaliers are impressed. So much so that none of them hears the phone. Which is a NIMPh—Nuclear Intercontinental Missile Phone—a phone whose nucleus of sound grows if the ringing passes unnoticed. ‘Someone please catch that’ saith Nzambi. ‘Prithee, Lord, doubt not that’ says Flight Lieutenant Bill–Hook Gates of the Shitty as he sloppily gets the hand telephone set, whilst nipping up his pridefully niping glasses. ‘Oho’ he tear-jerkedly ejaculates. ‘The NIMPh voice has just murmured that ELON MUSH HAS BEEN ABDUCTED BY ONE OF OUR RED DINOS FROM MARS.’

E. Mush’s spathe of vitaminic water had been spiked with a Lycioplesium martianum causing him to err and mendicate by holding out his beloved trilby. After much roving and vacillating, he collapsed in the noughties Buchclub marquee at the All Gods College, redbrick uni since the invention of Mars and the other delusions. Field Marshal Hire Brigade Matriculation Managing Crofter Mark Klutzberg saw that the soggy bloke’s trilby was brimming with Martian chop marked dollars. Thus, in spite of recognisance being seriously impeded by the knackered dermal aspect and bled white face both of which due to the extravagant dosage of L. martianum, M. Klutzberg gladly avoided the ascertainment of the parentage via Dental Nodule Analysis (DNA), and could unequivocally identify the man as being—Elon Mush.