Albiano G

Anatilo G

Arinami N

Bloip I

Blorhn A

Coltrane M

D’Aruntles C

Deal NE

Devi K

Drieč M

Ebsalai A

Egagal A

Elton O

Est S

Flamingo H

Flawndol S

Galvari G

Hamiltonian T

Hlzts A

Inhart A

Keel L

Kidjaki C

Kidjaki D

Kidjaki R

Klee P

Lee See A

Litarn MS

Maa F

McLaughlin E

Messalina Methuen JW

Niechala C

Nin MN

Nišivat Š

Og-Firrsan O

Péalono N

Prastier V

de Queiros F

de Queiros R

Rao Ba

Rao Br

Rastrero M

Ravigiallo M

Raymond A

Rexni I

Saliba G

Schlame G

See Law E

Slekton S

Stermer T

Strickland MS

Swopes DI

Tibreteps N

Trembart A

Trembart T

Tron A

Turbo M

Udidi (Hamiltonian) D

Utressa N

Vighdan B

Willoughby Johnson O

Xwarpo S

Xwarpo X

Yerisoa N

Zend W

International Meeting of Schizomythologists and Sociophysiologists
Inuhka Bloip
Fukaro-Intrussyan Bint

Glamporium, Owlstain, FZ

We do not doubt for a moment that not a few of yo[u readers] will fail, owing to the urdostoist distortion, or lexical lensing effect, caused by Nolan E. Deal’s supernova of a novel, Contra Diem [1], to bail that slew of boiling errors hauling across the sleazy baulk line of your libidinous kula, and therefore mistakenly conclude that our “thirsty dirty thigh girl,” as Ouida Willoughby Johnson calls her [2], from Blorhn en WY, IB (b. 1987), or Saian as her alibi in name, act, and sex logur would have it when she’s out patrolling the public planks with a labial nouba in Ishtar’s Hand or riffing a Halbi polka on the piano in Romer’s Samba or obnubilating the goggle-eyed Appalachian ploucs with her kohl-rimmed loin-link locked into the ditto of an albino poilu on the Playground of Taboo in Glamporium, is somehow akin to a pair of questionable academists on loan from the aforementioned tome (vid. infra). As we said supra, any of yo[u readers] who unblinkingly buy into such bunk would be choking down a veritable biali of errors, for the truth is that, according to D. I. Swopes [3], while that book was as yet, not only unread by our Elmo teasers, but also unborn to our soral esteem, we first saw our nubile Fukaro-Intrussyan bint in the role of a backwing paramour in the New Lexican première of Larry Lath’s Aunt Smaragdina’s Parandrus as put out at Glamporium, Sunday, July 13, 2003 [4]. Afterwards, we nibbled each other’s blinis and kipped our inky nubs together during a drunken halo in the hula bop that followed for the elect among the house front. The very next afternoon, during lunch at Utressa [5], I watched her polish off a mess of fried hoki and boiled poi followed by a whole roasted lubina (I was myself enjoying a pilau d’okapi e lapin a l’ail e l’apio followed by the bistro’s famously refreshing salad of nopal and Inula buds). An opal ankh dangled between her hyoid and her Tixputo huipil’s décolletage; a solferino spike of wild lupin whorls slashed the anthracite plane of her hair. The lanky, hulking, phial-swilling, bolo-throttled punk seated en face d’elle continued to stare blankly, nihilistically at the kiblah of his lust despite the punning koan (“Hola, bip Inuk! Hail, ibn Poku!”) I hailed them with when I scurried past their table on my way out. I have a phobia for lunks of his sort. She, however, like some uxorious caliph’s Nubian ikon flashing her teeth in the nikau-frond shade of a palki, responded with an energetic, though painfully truncated haiku: “Oh, hi, D. I.” What am I saying? I first poked into her one evening some three years earlier [6] during the oiled-up knob-hobbing and bi-punkah’d lap-blink preceding my precipitous exodus from Lutèce. I was descending rue de Belleville towards, and she ascending from, that tetrathecal metro station planted like a parasitoid’s oospore by (in the agentive, not the locative, sense) the horntail of Buttes Chaumont. At the level of a mural proclaiming, in an elegant rondate hand, “Il faut se méfier des mots,” her hooded visage opened towards mine in a floodlit mane, tactful and winsome, of invitation. “Mais, c’est toi, Dominique! Nous avons étudié la bio ensemble.” Too bonked, too glum to volley her lobbed serve, I nipped the game short with a dead-hooped and boorish “Impossible!” and walked on. She calls that hunk her “better half” now, and is possibly all knocked up with more than plainspeak and manly bulk [7]. “O, my pink-lipped pika child, my indelible lion hub, my pliable bilai mottled with [cough] hipblains now, mon inoubliable hibou! Neither in Kabul, nor Kobane, nor Hanoi, nor Bali, nor even Ulan Bator will we ever nab the like of you again” [8].
Contra Diem

Nolan E. Deal | Minxburgh : Random Library | 2006.

“Dr. Templeton Blope, of the University of the Outer Hebrides, who belonged to that British school, arisen in the wake of the Michelson-Morley Experiment, of belief in some secret Agency in Nature which was conspiring to prevent all measurement of the Earth’s velocity through the Æther” (131–132). “‘What cannot be resolved inside the psyche,’ put in the Expedition [alien]ist, Otto Ghloix, ‘must enter the outside world and become physically, objectively «real». Por ejemplo, one who cannot come to terms with the, one must say sinister unknowability of Light, projects an Æther, real in every way, except for its being detectable’” (132–133).

Cunt, for Inuhka “Saian” Bloip

Ouida Willoughby Johnson | Por Malo Lado Nº 23 | Autumn 2003.

“Want a thrill? / Your thumb for an onion, / Top totally wank or wack / But for a sort of joint // Of skin, / A skirt-flap for hunting johns — / Blanc, marron, safran, mort. / And now for that plush crimson plunging. // Small plump immigrant, / This Fukari’s waxing your quim. / Your crinkly cock’s-comb / Rug rolls and parts // To display your throbbing bright clitoral knot. / I won’t chomp too hard on it, though, / Pulling my pink fist, / Gritting my punchy jaw. // This party rocks! / Out of a gap, a void, a hollow hub, a slash / A million moonmad warriors run, / Turncoats all. // Gay, or not gay? you ask. / Ohhhh my / Womaninity — I’m not illin’, / I’m just tanking up on pills and rum and vodka and cognac and crack and crystal crank and shit to kill // This thin / Panting parchy rutty goatish sort of joy and pain. / It’s Sappho’s turn, now, / You garlickmunching bint — // This stain on my / Saffron skirt, / Baby, / Flows soooo strong and dark and now that // I’m balling you, / My cardiovulval pulp / Confronts its own small / Mill of aphasia — // Oh my, how you can hump! / Skullshot slut, / Thirsty dirty thigh girl, / Thumb snatch stunt stump.”

Words to make a story out of

D. I. Swopes | In prog. n’importe où | n.d.

Aunt Smaragdina’s Parandrus

Larry Lath | London : Lost | 1926.

In the third act of ludict “socio-physiological play,” Aunt Smaragdina, fearing a raid by the forces of moral and social control, slinks off stage, allowing IB, as Saian, to show off her barmaid’s skills, as well as orally mouth such choice snippets of text as, but not limited to, “Pisco Souw? Caju Amigo? Woyal Awwival? Cactus Jack? Widow’s Cowl? Towo Wojo? Mai Tai? My Faiw Lady? Daiquiwi? But alas, I simply don’t know from bat guano about any of this Mawgarita or Mawtini thang. How ’bout bouwbon? Stwaight? Wocks?”

Lunch at Utressa

D. I. Swopes | Owlstain SCAT | 16 July 2003.

In addition to eating out IB, the aforesaid author also lunched por una semana with several other nonerands of imssoc, including a humble mouthful who have chosen not to repeat the experiment, putting down his or her impressions in our rubrique hebdomadaire, “What’s Cooking in Owlstain?”

The case against reality

D. I. Swopes | Journal of Yazdehan Studies Nº 4 | 1999.

Careless and uncaring, crass, craven, fractious, intractable, ungraceful and ungracious even when prancing solo in front of her cunningly crafted Hawaii sex-mirror, sarcastic, arcane, acrimonious, sacrosanct, narcissistic and autarchically absent-minded, uninventive, and inconsistent to a degree that would belabor Mnemosyne herself, reality is a farcically gendered bitch prone to the most protracted bouts of menstrual cramp who tends to plagiarize herself, and not in the good way. This, in a nutshell, is the cardinal thesis, the overarching crux, of my Case Against Reality (CAR). But she’s not content merely to plagiarize her own idiosyncratic simulacra — no, she extracts her sarcoid bric-a-brac from the nacreous intracranial hobgoblins, the incarnate ambulacral imaginings of the live beings incarcerated in the dyscrastic prison of this, her abnormally plump pleroma. This farctate mix — air, wires, wax, rime, risible nothings — of larcenous gimcrackery she’ll then, in a process known as the Consolidation of Antiphenomenal Cæsuræ with the Carlock of Cant and Alliterative Repetition (CACCCAR, or CAR for short), scramble, splice, and cobble, rescramble, resplice, and recobble, into the sacrificial scarecrows and macaronic scaramouches formicating her anfractuous scarious macroscopic epicarp” (Abstract).

An account of antlion larval silk production among Mountain Fukari of Iagip

Ouida Willoughby Johnson | Journal of Sociophysiology 16(7) | July 2009.

“Any position claiming that not just a solitary but in fact a plurality of Ouidas spun this ludict from pith to pulp and back again is not totally wrong. I wish to thank my multivocal support group, my companions in fondling our ubiquitous womaninity, my curious collaborators in plumbing myth’s marrow and stroking that quaking, occasionally quailing, skin of taboo to a panting point just shy of culmination’s abyss: Atoca I, Gasa A, Hopi F, Inuhka B, Maryam R, and Mona C — from Coast to Mountain, Fukari girls all, in play or pathos, in agony or actor’s duty, in comfort or compulsion” (n. 40).

Convivia Convulvulata

A Tara T Dirty™ | On location at Rancho Convivia, FZ | Winter–Spring 2009–2010.

Starring AI, GA, GG, IB, MR, and OWJ, the latter having tragically disparue pendant a break in the shooting.

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