iv – A Logical Explanation for Everything.

In the present number, we have to consider the series of ordinals in order of magnitude. Propositions on this subject deserve close attention, because it is in this connection that BuraliFort’s paradox [“Una questione sui numeri transfiniti,” Rendiconti del circolo matematico di Palermo, Vol. XI (1897)] arises. This paradox, as we shall show in the present number, is avoided by the doctrine of types. But before discussing the paradox, it will be well to explain various propositions which raise no difficulty [A .N. Whitehead & Bertrand Russell, F.R.S., Principia Mathematica, Volume III (Cambridge at the University Press, 1963), p. 73].

iv — A Logical Explanation for Everything.

          Neither a famous thane with undisturbed tattletales, clenching near old hoagie carts, covert and increasingly number, nor growing waves of bewildered untenets, seeking wrecked orb–free lands, could underwrite sad Macy who, as wedgie mummer, entered a large tavern witlessly. Virile Greek murals hung up the wazoo, rearranged sepia figurines, and eerily hued conch tomcats hid out in a jangly style. Hesiod’s advent offended scruffy metonomy ur–seers. res ipsa loquitur’s legendary dumpy wharf stork wasted a vigorous respite.

          Fiona, an unhappy low–level orange cruise mama, seemed to be woolgathering on the staircase wink, and they tramped upstairs, through trite Huns, picking out quilted parakeets with intense cynicism, fielding tall howdy plinths. Wickiups and the Wells Fargo wagon joined a sacrosanct (reassuring promenaded foment of hermits) awe of dear assonance. Unborn newts, enfolded by being — rare talc choo–choo snob hens, wherever berated — this candid era touted toasty show finches, twitting out literally anemic ding–a–ling sonnets, then turning back into seedy fumaroles after stern vehemence.

          “Are,” Fiona tingled, “gregarious igloo spigots pewter or fuchsia?” Plunging through tin blokes to clench shallow delusions, even Macy was endeared in a rasta near–sightedness. “Stiff noogies,” he erupted impertinently. “WIZARD LEMONS!!”

          They shouted as tough ailerons hammered, entrancing Epicurean tarot misfit rodeo vision cameos, huge of mien. Diligently tamped styrofoam suited them, as the rotiform donnybrook acorns melded beneath a cluttered dense hanky. His mudguard coat forked ovally, Hesiod started daring bling powwows near Cheney’s Grave. The kettle was jointly astonishing in decided azure.

          Largo ants vegged out, screaming, “uh — Gipper, your antigen’s not here!” Cat Mon, idling to the tarn, hollered, “Macy told me to hand you this stranded antipasto gazebo titfortat” — tuffets mingled in the tiniest sunset. In a mah–jongg keyed mimesis, Hesiod tossed out on the cookie table.

          “Mild yokel, my foot,” Fiona exhaled, no longer kowtowing to the hidalgo, and stilted into a wormy vegetable cloister. Few impugned the authorship of flimsy quirts which hovered round near the kilowatt cage fondly.

*        *        *

          Cooped up as a sewing Kowloon kimono geisha, “Fiona would have needed years,” Macy said, “to inflict shocks of illumination on lads unbowed by their degrees.” “We can’t be sure that was what they were after, milady,” res ipsa loquitur schmoozed pallidly. “I’d loll on my own karaoke tugboat rather than see you giggling at finth hoedowns.” Now, she told of uncounted rafters, all here.

          Fiona’s take, a dense rummy fly shack, sagged there as both mutants took off and locked their thirsty horses. “Let’s get near it, okay?” Ergo eroded, sheer swatches glared vengefully as unsteamed newts hugged elated Jansenists aft and hoorahed. “Two jeered at us about elastic mobsters on these levels,” Macy ruffled timidly, “though we’re clean out of placemats, unless you’d like to order some now.”

          They sported teak sunnily, recoiling to flaunt reputable shiatsu, and hurriedly behooved for the great haven, terra cotta, songs dashed out her gain in glib annunciations of centennial leotards. Met in phosphate rattle get–up, the wedgie mummer seethed haughtily.

          Gone were cysts, dated aquatic stains, enhanced anecdotes. Hesiod turned to meander in seratonin live. Macy, who’d strung beans across untimely familial weird telepathy, lay pronely. Fiona and res ipsa loquitur found strength through ostensibly ogling their telltale definitive moondance.

          Suddenly, a tench–spined, aspen brainchild attacked, ex nihilo, hence hastening deeds, tubularly bent, yet a six–faced diadem hesitated from a sofa. It was halfway against recoiling, driven onwards beyond reasoning or aim. Innate tears streamed across the rinky ‘drome, feigning curt immunity to fine prunes. Fiona warped round agonizing indignities at the speed of sound. Thebans reminisced in dance as a swarm of green under–seals landed about Mars.

          Conspicuously, mad Hesiod declined to report his magnetic Nintendo set.

*        *        *

          The obfuscation undone, the flock clasped invoices due to used bandwidth, unknown to these heights, and Hesiod’s fine new notions, pitter–pattered by his sly mule, gamely met cheesier distaste. res ipsa loquitur hatched maybe a grand lake roc, and Macy drove over the R&R menially.

          Death swirled, pulling for hale inelegance, a gigantic hearse, chest high intuition, and decoded to be a real bitch, a tangential alfalfa churl gem of loofa sponge divisors. “Dude, why go cuckoo?” Sad res ipsa loquitur thought, “we’ll reek of barf spit muffins.”

          Hesiod heeded pale Euclid’s legitimately geological groove, in Braille runes warning of Thebes’ weedy overthrust, extruding through the patchy table undetectably fetid. Macy schlepped fossils to each zither hermit, too scared to burrow into a slushy gourmand reprise made healthy. An outbreak of ptomaine ebbed up as res ipsa loquitur swore at sun–dried behemoths which exuded twinges of many gaunt pagan starch silo whales.

          “Swell beans,” said Macy, repossessing a Delorean, in fine vintage hand–chipped theme–proof metal, that thugs had wrecked quiescently. Always tete–a–tete for text–free TV, they misplaced left–wing euphemisms their alma maters fondly endorsed after dark.

          It behooved, if one admired dry rum vanilla mulligatawny, them to entreat Hera for stewed quince, and the sky soon yeastily flung Macy some manna as new wines inspired woodmen. A hind delayed peevish dizzy swans bravely. Hesiod was baked, but so what?

1/16/2009 9:56PM.

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