The Book Is "Funny." The Bastardo Is "Exposed."

One trouble with the book is that it quiets the little Roman's possible adventures. If the book is a little pansy that acts like a song, its sensuality must surely expose a surly plan for the meme which it analyzes as a parallel to "beautiful fermentational energy." It's cute deciding. A homely toad can analyze a fine trousseau by noticing the duality of antiques when found inside a lame corpse. A corpse's mode is lame, always lame, because it is always indistinct from the fundamental fondue. The corporeal corpse is spiritual. Its existence is like a permanent lie, or vine, upon which grows, an indestructible otherness called "Les Chevaux." You can see them in two jars. One is transforming from shit, and the other is an eternal dance, an egalitarian recipe for fondue. One can see them jest with superior toots whom they call "manifestations of vital activity," but these special humaments are nothing more than a semblance of equipollenta, or cheap harmelodic bachwush, a migratory thrumbophlebotis associated with carnesomas of the sung and pan-kreated heenum. The Royal Doctors of Hawaii grow Bastardo grapes from enormous hollow concrete tikis. Your unintelligent hesitations justify the errors of my fantasy. Dependence on mystery equals hesitation. Think about the fermentation of all the evidences. Think about the ideal odor of Diomedes as he approaches Diogenes to offer the old bugger an antique cabinet housing a collection of weird anchors. "Dig-gogy-neice," as Diomedes calls him, says, "What a charming poot, or cabinet of roses!" To which "Dumb-media," as Diogenes calls him says, "Let's drink clear Port, I'm already dead on a coin, and think of all the crazies who desire my feet in their dessert!" They both lie like Roman barbarians, or whatever. They both curate strange parfait to slavish, yet indocile, Enneads, who roll in various ways. I'm getting sick of calling dead paper "philosophy"...