Naranja? Arancia?
"The odour of intratextuality," said Arthur, providing continuity.
"Does 'cui bono' mean 'well cooked'?" asked Ernie.
"We don't know," said the Turkish army, in Turkish. "No se!" said the Spanish army, without translator. The Czech Philharmonic, without conductor, said nothing.
"Naranja?" asked Nieztsche, in Spanish (who was still dead). "Who cares — so's God!" he retorted. A moment later he was buried in oranges by the Spanish army. "Et tu, Sooty?" he remarked, looking at seven buckets, each one squirming with worms. *
"That's disgusting," claimed the Emperor Ludicrus, with the emphasis clearly on the navel. And that's a type of orange.
"Arancia?" asked Nietzsche, now in Italian, since the current writer spoke that better than Spanish.
"Da, da, da, da, da, da; da, da, da, da, da, da," went the Star-Spanished Banner, the Bar-Mangled Spanner, and indood the Spag-Hetti'd Bunbur. Y! Y!
To continue: stava seduta su un sacco gonfio, il solito sacco che riappare a certe latitudini come riappare l'asino, e si lamentava. Egli capì che quella donna diceva nel suo dialetto: "Dov'è andato? Dove se n'è andato?"
"Vas-t'en!" Whoops, slight shuft of dialetto there.
"Stilettos," laughed Neetcher, who couldn't even spell his own feet, let alone smell his name.
* Fri 20 Mar 92
