..I see.. ... I SEE!
Scenario: (one of n-)
Setting:
You have gone to D.C. (..some cockamamie reason as seemed OK at the time. To a mathematician).
Necessarily you're clad in one of the hastily-contrived Star-warz knock-off space-suits with-filters etc.
Natch you want to peep The White [-Death] House (mayhap for the refrain which the monkey-brain has set to a tune?) and familiar to
all levels of er, Math: the locus of *points ..with doggerel sorta~like? L-of-P awk Awk!
* well, the locus of pointy-heads creating the many months of heaped-dead-bodies.. thence daily cooings of, "It-It-It's almost.. Over, Folks!"
(Looney Tunes & Melodies playing background, on that now familiar/dreaded daily signature-TV-spot).
(You focus on the hyperbola natch: your entire adventure being fucking-hyperbolic, right?)
Usually the place is the-very-model-of impregnable bastille (with bastards) but this be Body Collection Day. The big truck slowly drives through the razor-wired gate (and you have grabbed the hand-hold at rear, your Mama having no stupid cheeldruns) and your attire suits the Suits-assembled scene inside the new walls--meant to keep the Inmates-In, not-so-much the other way, anymore. (Lynch-mobs had been expected), but it seems that too-many dropped out at appointed time: there was something neat-o on Tee Vee, Ex: The 'Nicks -vs- The Crips, a switchblade spectacular for the kiddies--ever since Sesame Street was banned as being Traitorously-Democrat-sounding.
Inside: as you wander about with shivers, you encounter an oval-door? [should be..] well, portal-orifice to That Room which-may-not be named/Security is All. And.. There! He IS, nostrils (with a few flakes attached=='normal'; cf. the aforementioned Mr. Edroso's send-ups). You ID-self as a Messenger from The Capo of All Capos who was sent just to shake HIS hand. Yours being gloved, his-Not: the *правда сыворотки has been administered-by-handshake (and glove). You thanked him for his wise suggestion about (er, church-roster-decimation) but more simply, given his familiarity only with two-syllable words and the oxymoron-destroyed Incredible!.
.. ... as your recorder captures every slurred syl-lab'-le ... you Give-self that greeting, oft to one's pet.. What a Good Boy! am I.
[All now know the postlude, the past being prelude within the jelloware of millions]
...the parade, the Nobel's (newly-minted) It's-About-Fucking-Time! Medal--embossed, all in 26-karat Aurum (it's better-than the common 100%, natch).
{Sorry ..hadn't had AM coffee yet} ..but we Can grab the dream-stuff from not-very-awake, eh?
* Truth Serum
Setting:
You have gone to D.C. (..some cockamamie reason as seemed OK at the time. To a mathematician).
Necessarily you're clad in one of the hastily-contrived Star-warz knock-off space-suits with-filters etc.
Natch you want to peep The White [-Death] House (mayhap for the refrain which the monkey-brain has set to a tune?) and familiar to
all levels of er, Math: the locus of *points ..with doggerel sorta~like? L-of-P awk Awk!
* well, the locus of pointy-heads creating the many months of heaped-dead-bodies.. thence daily cooings of, "It-It-It's almost.. Over, Folks!"
(Looney Tunes & Melodies playing background, on that now familiar/dreaded daily signature-TV-spot).
(You focus on the hyperbola natch: your entire adventure being fucking-hyperbolic, right?)
Usually the place is the-very-model-of impregnable bastille (with bastards) but this be Body Collection Day. The big truck slowly drives through the razor-wired gate (and you have grabbed the hand-hold at rear, your Mama having no stupid cheeldruns) and your attire suits the Suits-assembled scene inside the new walls--meant to keep the Inmates-In, not-so-much the other way, anymore. (Lynch-mobs had been expected), but it seems that too-many dropped out at appointed time: there was something neat-o on Tee Vee, Ex: The 'Nicks -vs- The Crips, a switchblade spectacular for the kiddies--ever since Sesame Street was banned as being Traitorously-Democrat-sounding.
Inside: as you wander about with shivers, you encounter an oval-door? [should be..] well, portal-orifice to That Room which-may-not be named/Security is All. And.. There! He IS, nostrils (with a few flakes attached=='normal'; cf. the aforementioned Mr. Edroso's send-ups). You ID-self as a Messenger from The Capo of All Capos who was sent just to shake HIS hand. Yours being gloved, his-Not: the *правда сыворотки has been administered-by-handshake (and glove). You thanked him for his wise suggestion about (er, church-roster-decimation) but more simply, given his familiarity only with two-syllable words and the oxymoron-destroyed Incredible!.
.. ... as your recorder captures every slurred syl-lab'-le ... you Give-self that greeting, oft to one's pet.. What a Good Boy! am I.
[All now know the postlude, the past being prelude within the jelloware of millions]
...the parade, the Nobel's (newly-minted) It's-About-Fucking-Time! Medal--embossed, all in 26-karat Aurum (it's better-than the common 100%, natch).
{Sorry ..hadn't had AM coffee yet} ..but we Can grab the dream-stuff from not-very-awake, eh?
* Truth Serum