I always knew the Wombles were a bunch of proto-ecologists and, as you know, the green is either. {Tick}
But, as we all know, the Wombles are grue not green, while others do contend that they are bleen. Who knows? 8 out of 10 Wombles said they preferred bulldozers to pianos. But then, they would say that, wouldn't they? {Tick}
What more can one expect of those who prefer pseudo-real demolition to the possibility of artistic creation?
THAT, TOO, OF COURSE,
BUT STILL COMPLETELY {In a triangle, with a picture of something that has just disappeared} NOTHING.
No thing O thing othing othering boo
And a complete absence and almost antithesis of derring-do.
The Wombles shifted in nervously. "What are we here for anyway?" one of them asked querulously. "Well, there was to have been a plot," Phil began, before being interrupted by a drum solo, "but it was intercepted on the way by a posse of hermeneutical mafiosi, who headed it off at the pass."
And yet, and yet, Arthur mused. Somwhere, there must be a plot. "Yes, we want a structure, give us some logic," the Wombles cried. But their efforts were resisted by the Ma'd tribe. Ray Vin Ma'd, their leader, looked up from his copy of "A pseud's guide to Derrida; or Derrida's guide to pseuds; a.k.a. how to gibber in 5 easy lessons (vol. 2 free with vol. 1)". {Tick}
What no allusions?! No — originality stands on its own merits. Soon, soon, we shall move up into the broad, sunlit uplands, where plots exist. There is no alternative — other than the rantings of the Ma'd — "I have nothing to offer you, but gibber, text and words."
Calm down! Norman is an island, as Chinston Wormhill may have dead — thank you as well to our first Guest Spooker, in honour of whomp we commend this new crolour.
(Unfortunately we're unable to acknowledge your letters, but the cost pode remains (hic)).
Oh, a double braquet; how suckening (siquening?).
Yes!
Affirms itself apparently — and what more can be said? In writing. Of course! No man's land, not a ghost of a chance, beyond the principle of power, the post (age stamp?). What a card! Miss Addressed — Wake!
"Awake my soul a-and with the Son," sang Arthur, feebly, keeping his metaphysics warm. A tempest raged — windy windy! Airy nothing!
The plotline was long and windy, not to say windy. It stretched through a verdant and strange land
{Cuneiform text}
{Simple Chinese ideogram}
{The same simple Chinese ideogram}
[unwibbling povot]
"Blow winds and crack your cheeks. Fishy fishy."
"Unclear, Nuncle Lear." "In flew Ezra."
"Pounds, shillings and pence. BANG!"
Excuse me. To return to the windy windy (vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts!) plotline. We are on an island which may or may not have at one tiime belonged to Prospero. At any rate it is second hand.
— Book! Book book!
There are chickens on the island. It has seven pages. Geronimoo.
No, it's an island. Islands have no pages. Rather, they have — er — palm trees, and sand ampersand woods words, Abominable Spoonman. No, no. Gramophones itself. To no is to know, no? Ha! Bless thy five wits! Tom's acold.
{in red biro} Caramba! Now that's what I call GIBBER (volume LIXV). There's limited ink in that red pen, Arthur thought. "So what's happened to the plot?" It was last spotted heading in a southerly direction. — If anyone has any information, please could they contact 'The Author', c/o The Mind, The Himalayas, where he lives in happy harmony with the Abominable Snowman. "Who said Abominable?" shouted de man in the Nazi uniform. "You vill all die or agree viz my deconstruction polizeis, sorry policies. Nein. Nein."
Textual malfunction due to radical injustice. And should we really hand over the plot to the author? Just like that? He is, as we have already seen, rather tasteless. Perhaps one should enquire more closely into his policies for the future of the text.
That was a Party Political Textuality on behalf of Limited Responsibility
"Fairly windy" said Michael Fishy.
Fish, fash, fosh! Fush & foodles... Arthur picked up a convenient plotline and smashed them all to bits with a broomstick.
Left, right, left, rong, Rongo Starr.
It'sthecustardinthewrazzlethatmakesyougokerfazzle?
"And, dear O, (dear, dear O'y), our tale is nearly taled.
Our tale is nearly stale. Our toll is nearly steel.
The curlew tolks the Salg of prattling dæg."
Also sprach Brandreth, wearing a fluorescently illuminant jumper; "Would the Right, Left, Right, Left, Honourablem Gentlymarsh explode wire (and I mean it) tax (tacks) have/s/d incrooned. Oh shut up."
ATTACK (n.): Used for pinning things on notice burps.
Welcome to page 36. In order anything here to write,
invert yourself in a bouquet of jellé.
"Texty, texty," said the Welsh Himalayas, exploding.
There once was a man from Tibop,
Whose egg-boxes never would flop,
He said "I am mad,
But you haven't been had,
For my brain is a bucket of slop."
(Edward Blear)
"Texty, texty, texty," said Murphy, who was a loony from the planet Sodd. "Manure," (if not flexible flexitime and/nor textible texty-time) — and at that point a great yawning yawnm yawned up from the yawno yawnbag and said:
"Do-be-do-be-do-be-do-be-doo. BANG. Excuse me."
This will not (therefore) have been a DIALOGUE OF COWPATS CHR$(140).
For the chief and sufficient reason, O reader, that it is NOT DIALECTICAL. Or the cowpat, especially the left one. Otherwise we could understand it ≠ x. So here.
{upside down, with the S's mirrored} SOUFFLE DISH
Arthut surveyed the absence of his subjectivity. It was rather dull, and full of part-objects. "I do not seem to be able to distinguish myself from my mother," he said, "Oh bother." That unfortunate lady was deceased, consequently Arthur could not even say whether he himself was alive or dead.
"For in that ƒleep of death what creams may dome, when we have muffled of this chortle soil!"
It was raining cats, hats, bats and even flats. The signifier sank like Oedipus into the sea. "Oh shit," said the author, who did not beat about the bush, in case a lot of birds, or words, or worse, should fall out.
"I think that's rude," said Arthur, and slowly smiled.
"I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am," he said, quoting Sylvia Plath two and a half times.
"So you keep saying," said the author, defensively. He sang, tastelessly, "Nietzsche NAZI is dead and Paul de Man NAZI is really quite deconstructed!" A moment later, he was struggling under the weight of the phrase "obese elephant", which Arthur had thrown at him accurately, if a little arbitrarily.
{Palimpsestically} SOUFFLE DISH
The floor burst open, and in yawned Mr Gyles Z. Badbreth, the well-known game-show host and member of parlour-game-show host.
Easy on the game-show hosts! Whoa there! Avast!
"Jewellery, jewellery," exclaimed Sir Jimmy Saville OBE DSO BZW KCMBCBG. Somewhere, in the uttermost recesses of the mind, a chicken clucked. "It's all in the mind," confirmed Dr Anthony Clare, "or do you know better?" added Esther Rantzen.
"Enough celebrities," said Arthur, and exited the mind.
