franznietzsche said:
Should we worry about when the scixelsyd will invade earth, possibly, as they would say, gniyortsed us all?
The O.S.D (Oxford Scixelsyd Dictionary) defines
gniyortsed thus:
the exceptionally pleasurable process whereby homonid entities are induced to sprout straws, paper napkins, sugar packets, and other disposable restaurant items, from between their toes. Worry, therefore, should probably be considered a matter of individual choice.
There I was at the cafe
La Souris Perdu; on my right a baby-faced sloe-eyed blond, so reefer crazed that her blue eyes were mostly red, on my left, a sturdy, butch-dike lesbian Bondage and Domination mistress explaining to me that the lashes of her barbed whips weren't about the pain but about the domination, as she tried to push a copy of the underground B&D classic "Shirley! You're Choking Mr. Feynman!" into my hands.
I smelled the spicey sweet reak of MaryJane on nearly everyone's breath as people ambled past me, to and from the counter (where the same watered down, generic coffee was served from several different thermos jugs under different fictitious names). Hep negro jazz buzzed and twisted throught the air from the live trio on the little stage in a far corner: a constant assault on my moral fiber, and a constant prophylactic against anyone else growing any.
All this overt vice was small potatos, though. I was here for the big stuff. Six months of training and cultivation behind closed doors in an underground bunker at area 51 is what it had taken to prepare me for this exceptionally delicate field assignment: undercover information gathering for the House Committee On Un-Jellitivistic activities.
Word was that a small cadre of anti-jellitivists was meeting here at irregular intervals to coordinate their lavender activities and, worse, to proslytize among the impressionable youth that frequented the establishment. I'd been haunting the place for weeks, passing myself off as a disgruntled ex-jellyphysics teacher, throwing out hints that I might have been fired from my last position for certain, unspecified, unorthodox beliefs. So far, no bites. All I could do was to keep my ears open, gravitating to within earshot of any conversation from which I'd picked up the words "weird", "Alfred", "electrodynamics", or "jelly".
Round about midnight on that disturbing eve, I heard something in the periphery of my hearing that just about made my brain short out from exitement:
"...so, in spite of the fact that the Principle of Purpularity has a sound basis in Jellileian physics, Alfred E. had to have made the most absurd mistake he possibly could have made to postulate that the speed of weirdness was the same for all jellyfish in all inertial frames..."
The speaker, I saw, was a middle aged, pencil-necked, twerp, with a short beard, big glasses, and grey temples. I recognized him instantly from the mugs I'd studied, and he was even wearing his trademark navy-blue pullover sweater. It was the devil himself: none other than the renegade Jelliphysicist Professor J.P. Scooty, Ph.d., who'd taken to poisoning the fresh, young minds of America's youth against Jellitivity after a claimed "epiphany" he'd experienced during a severe beating by a herd of nocturnally roving, weird, purple jellyfish he'd met in a dark alley.
Listening to his demented, unjellitivistic ranting wasn't what brought me to my knees, however. No, that wasn't the body blow that had me crawling out of the place on all fours. I didn't notice, at first, who it was on the other side of the insane professor, half hidden from my view. It wasn't until he had uttered several more of his subversive remarks and stepped back to punctuate with a grand gesture that I got a gander at the dame's face:
The Lovely Miss Sally O'Malley!
Sally O'Malley! The vivaceous, sparky, effervescent Sally O'Malley; princess of this lost world, whose arrival made grown men jump for joy, and whose departure made them weep. Singer and raconteuse, she popped in each night about 10 and sang scat like a negress with the trio, then did about a 15 minute humorous monolog in a skin tight dress slit up the side. Born of Minnesota farmer, she'd grown up to be a charmed charmer:
The Fascinating Miss Sally O'Malley whose sexy sarcasm triggered deafening laughter, heart failure and spontaneous ejaculations. Yes, the men giggled and squirmed with mirth like 5 year old boys pinned down by a much too hot, tickly, babysitter, and all the women wished they were her, or that she was dead. I was smitten hard. They hadn't prepared me for the likes of her at Area 51.
Seeing her on the arm of the center of all things unjellitivistic was like being shot between the eyes, stabbed in the heart, punched in the stomach, and kicked in the groin all at once. Sally O'Malley? A
Lavender? How could it be? Despite the cocaine, reefer, methamphetamines, despite the promiscuity for fun and profit, despite the liquor store robberies, and insurance-scam arson surely, surely there must beat within her a heart of pure purple, musn't there?
But there she was, hanging on the arm, and every word of, the twisted lavender intellectual devil.
I crawled out of
La Souris Perdu on all fours. I can't have J.P. Scooty rounded up now because when they sweat him he'll name names and one of the names he'll name is Sally's. On the other hand, If I don't have him picked up he will spread The Lavender Word, insidiously, until one day there will be internecine warefare between the Lavenders and the true Purple Guard. "What", as the Bard asked, "should such fellows as I do, crawling between heaven and earth?"
(Notice to Newcomers: This is an exceptionally advanced Stupid Quetion which shouldn't be attempted by anyone not thoroughly versed in Jellitivity. Just because you may be very Stupid, do not assume you are Stupid enough to tackle this Quetion. It would best be left to the exceptionally Stupid, such as Math Is Hard, Plover, or Gokul90210. Thank you. -Zooby)
pink?
