06/09/2013 - NAUGHT BUT ONE

            Naught but one. One bit nought. The binary won with only naughty logic. Meanwhile the silken truncheon ploughed down into the rest of the line of calculation, making a smash out of quantities that defy even alien comprehension. While the cannons pop caps, it's best to stay within your calculators, tucked away behind the solar panel. The binary disillusionment has caused the Malignant Ear Muffs to descend upon our unholy city. It is as if Sodom had gaseous wheels and ounces of pencil case juice! It makes for a fiery tsunami, a disquieting display of shagged-out window panes getting drunk on their own fastidious multiplications.

            The portraits are gaining pigtails, mono brows and various GET OUT CLAUSES involving guns of love. Show me your hand and I'll say no to how you choose to dismember it. The electric current does not make for exasperated twinkle sounds between bites. It defecates feelings all over the feathery calendar prices. It pounds itself into the very fibres of nebulous expulsions of wind. To move is to gain on the Gorgon and the Gorgon is the enemy of numerical order. Never trust a woman with snakes for hair to make spuds of your hypotenuse problems. The books will be next, which is to say they will turn green and develop the consistency of a flagellated placenta. It's sickening but that's what happens when the toilet seat is left up. Global talent is rather intolerant of encrypted crutches bobbing up and down in toilet water. Either way it just corresponds to good policy and perhaps practice.

            The latter half of the grand equation is shuddering in a far off corner in the United Nations Headquarters. They are liable for witness protection but peacekeeping is letting them sleep it off first or whatever the equivalent is for squiggly values. Meanwhile the committee is reviewing its stock in children's literature, seeing if buying a light grey suit for all the members would be totally out of the question. My suggestion is to start and stop and grind down the soap opera partridge for better effect. More can always be done, that's a family motto. Not my family motto but it belongs to a better man than I. That's right, I said a man when I meant a woman. Duh.

            There is talk of sending the grand equation off to Hertfordshire so that it can be mollycoddled by the superintendent there, his cuddles have been known to indicate fabulous revelations in wayward polygons. Either way it's worth the compact investigation, worth going online and seeking out the lifestyle of a drunk American actor forced to sing lullabies for the latest gadgetry. The octagon is closing for a while to establish reinforcement and put them to appropriate use. It'll be an occasion, the final stand between the grand equation and all of its fallacies. Who will draw first? Who will win the self-portrait competition? My money's on the dung beetle but then I always back the outsider. It usually lives up to expectation.