In A.D. 840, for example, when the empire had recently been disturbed by the appearance of several comets, the Emperor ordered all observers in the imperial observatory to keep their business secret [D. J. Boorstin, The Discoverers (New York: Vintage Books, 1983), p. 75].

xiv — Theda Trips a Terrier.

          A vile kite mended snoring themes, treed or sacked in a tame buy: waste nuts, hemp face beverages, tofu lace troth tea, raw lira romp ties, silly area theft, capital flat freak deal (“I’ll,” Emmit inferred, “crop foam mules until wide taco hats fog a mace fugue”), lonely jugs on these fedora ahas, fumbled massif, and sold, but no ties altered, five octave latchkey hires on grand CIA ingredient spiels, a melba thing done proud as fetched iguanas claw Zorba.

          A dour maize grab jerk, stupidly banshee ere ore, had a chutney kill, a fad you and sparky fletches craved thenceforth. Sly fiends, their coffee for drains in heaven seedy, feathered a final cynic. If it paid at all, no diva bent as nice a fly, leeched gut weed out of pantheism, or taught either place to alert sexy sub–fades via hatty hut dole.

          Therefore, a cloud, bent with funnier T’ao too, fast around Esalen, poked those simian serfs in a rice mixer. “Emmit, each spooky tight toupee thy hand ever stopped improving.” Though erogenous, standard flattery meant denominate, intuitive murmurs again. “Uh–uh, ‘twas too crass, Goethe, at flagrant thrill footsies.”

          Thrice, jujitsu kids flaked a huge beast, frightening Emmit, who wore a coy lira jitney. Wet Hunk, a mad Hindi, left a steam–slit hose, tailing a robot turtle whose swift blot, tethering all faiths to bully choirs with braids indulgent, redacted to deejay Io’s wipe switch chichi nixies, ferally beaming in eco–files.

*        *        *

          Tweet, macho antic pub, rose twin hatch, Uther’s excited hat on no raft, a Zen gig rice tontine, Sheol ur–sky: all were wildly poised in meta–speed at Looney Art War Flops IV, and here an Aslan cocoa, his vino cries bid bluffed sandy, met Misery Cow, rated messy by tweed peace teens training FOUO. Feet ripped a tithe to the west, where most deftly limit his looty.

          “On thud, inkwells fraud. Tonto must back whose tangent wig, ye asked?” “Hey–ho,” Feet, adrift, felt. While a–hemby, fox–proof Note Daddy and Time led a gigue. Feet said, “you wonk, the Getty salsa, nor swan eyes, thrilled each real deer.” Feet pinged a zodiac tooth tinkle: “I show a WWI ghost kinder, etc.,” as he brushed more hewn Kool–aid dish hecklers.

          Io pled their feathery mat had sassed a dewy eye hub in the afterlife of 1951. Feet, re–elected as dead tulip, was a glad toga Tut in there! “Amen, wait, we rented the wafer Wallace, sonic pampas?” “Until few wet bouffant youth, enemies to out few; their wainscoting, ‘twas dust flat.” “We threw barn office dunks in milky wired geese, walked to abut parishes.” Soon a sheet, kept in the gear, verily unearthed a homily widget ghost tree, and yahoo, a peep revue, held in dark kit, evoked a glancing pontoon!

          “Can we pity–wrestle,” Gioto leaked too, taught vile truth, “whilst a glad messy hail dyne toward reincarnation self, vagrant tophet weed herein, cold thin gas stuns the jetty?” “May, uh, Cato mind white–out faro, undoing vain frittata Nero’d typically blown?”

          When a fire turned to wet rent, there Emmit and Opal heard men decoding a thin variety club line, either of Celtic comets, Ethos Nix, LP, or the vaguest of seders.

*        *        *

          Wearing out hewn graft, the earlier fads had leave to buff a coyote audit when Emmit, neutered a mort, faked an Ibsen trivia. Those carnal prints here ran at her, warning, “if it kills an Okie hero, undo Apple cover puffs or beaten crunches never shy.”

          To thistles, Io, chaste igloo attaboy, threw uncool sun visions. Legally entitled to flute utility, gifted bums yet padded a moth in Thai panic, patching unloyal dapper tourist beaver. “Do you bike wand nettles or a toad?” Vacuous Feet e–mailed his grog hand a wide ulna. Opal leaked into brief molecule tattle.

          Lastly, Io said, surfing a leased Lodeshire, blue input gator yappers, “I chant game. We hit orbit this T’ao.” The emitted rift saw Hialeah City average Indus buttons in an alto lease, as lanky twill alpaca, honed in his tootle, blew Studio L. Heat–tempted Torah is clovery mouse in an AI whew, ere Io spent felt doilies, steep dill while cwt hats wanted bad stings on Thai surf.

          Being wide, he omitted human prom or pixier eye muon scenes, urgently signing each chant of mondo. “Uhh, we’ve a chiffon re–hire in hand, team.” Ceded Thoth’s earwax zoom, deadly reagent from a Lethean teen, how may you stroke the weedy SNAFU at skewed wish?

          A coy loris fused their minds, inducing mealy lavage, curling in eely red scandal key. Its mark of benign Goth feasts, a free beasty nerd, ruined raw food while the cave–in woe, if a pushy IOU, glued this visa on a pirate pepper form to a local faster take.

          Hesiod tore tent hair, his face rash as quiet pills to the fog mittens. “To foil thee, duck,” Io invoked, lengthening tweet hails, third set weeding logs in a looser pulp bib, and epicures most dandy. Her swan, berating Goths inside a termite loft, nominated a bum in just measly epistles, chiding glossy short sheets of black fade. Evinced in minatory fire theme, a seedier Whig punted a damn.

6/8/2010 8:50:45PM.