{wibbly blob with a face} = {large tree} × 50 {pineapple, with two dashed lines emanating from it to corner the tree}
Suggestions?
No 4. Reginald Magdalen's continuum
Introducing ...
three slightly distorted entities saying nothing ...
and they call it
"39, WILLIAM STREET"
Oh no!
Saluton!
Saluton!
S
A
L
U
T
O
N
Did you bath your fish?
Oh, that's where my pen went.
"π2 = π × π". Discuss.
TODAY'S WEATHER:
ABSOLUTELY BLOODY DISGUSTING. DON'T GO OUT.
AND THE OUTLOOK FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY:
COLD, PROBABLY.
There is a problem with short anagrams. The problem is, or rather one of the problems, for there are many, a sizeable proportion of which are continually clogging up the civil, commercial and criminal courts in all areas of human "civilisation", and especially, where possible, the more corrupt ones, this.
The previous sentence makes sense. That is not the problem.
Suggestions, please, for what the problem might be...
∫ ( {fish} x (y - {stick man}) ) / √ yashmak dx
The problem is what stands between the sentence (above, or any), in which the problem is provisionally located by virtue of the iterability without which it (if it can be so called, or if "it" can be so called, etc.) would not admit of any situation, position, positing, siting, citing, etc., and itself (if any).
Hail text (ping!),
This book would like to recommend itself (insofar as its linguistic inhumanity admits of internal motivations [which isn't very, Ed.]) to your attention (who?) as having more, and frillier, words in it than the Roman Empire, with the exception of Uncle Bulgaria ("I am not a number, I am a country in Eastern Europe"), who can remember. Be seeing you!
OBEY GNU, I SEE.
EUEESY BOING.
YOUNG SEEBE.
As I strolled down Longwall Street,
A wildebeest I chanced to meet,
With fourteen heads and ears encoded,
And then (alas!) the beast imploded.
If you want a laugh
And a half
Give your fish a bath
But don't say I didn't warn you.
Dear Sir (or madam)
I (or you) think it's about time (or manner or place) for this book (or... book) to move in a new direction, to become more spontaneous, to break the mould (sic – oops, sorry) of British beef. And that's why I'm writing to you in this epistolary form (rather than a vat of lemon juice).
I should like, however, to recommend to you some books, though aware that others too have been drawn to your attention:
- The Wombles and the decline of the Roman Empire – the untold story. 158pp + illustrations and pop-up features.
- Hamish McWomble reflects on his part in demolishing Rome and upon then gathering up the rubble which others left behind.
- The lives and loves of a cabinet [that's it?!]
There was once a self-conscious discourse
Which ended up being served as a main course
But it took its revenge
In blood by Stonehenge
Though the case was solved by Inspector Morse.
More moose – less gnat!
There once was a limerick so abstruse
That everyone it did so confuse
It took them by surprise
But at the final reprise
It was understood by a wandering moose.
There once was a lemon-green oaf who
Was also a nice white sliced loaf who
Said "Four curried fleas
And a whole load of cheese!"
And filled up his wellies with tofu.
There was also a loud ambiguity
Who ate laundry with assiduity
'Twas a British Rail sandwich
That got out of hand which
Reduced it to mauve superfluity.
Arthur realised that the house was surrounded – how could he escape? Then he remembered the system of underground passages beneath his house, so he proceeded downstairs at once. But the way was barred by a sign (sic) saying "Passages closed for deconstruction – deferrals possible indefinitely, with the possibility of infinite regress. Please take diversion via vicious circle, as indicated." "Damn," he thought, unable to exploit the ambiguity.
moose + moose = more mooses
moose + hat = less hat
moose + less = left-handed
left + hand = more
"I am not a language. I am a free yak."
Discuss.
