[Illustration from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Keaton_Music_Typewriter.JPG]

A novelette. Or, perhaps, a novelomelette.
2012 (Mayan Acropolis): M.A.Devereux.

1. Bar, Wrista.


Tristram and Isla first meet in a bar. They met in a bar called the Mermaid Tavern in the metropolis of Synchronicity. They met because they had both put advertisements in an online dating campsite. Tristram’s advertisement had read as follows: Male, 29 (Man, Chest/Her): GSOH, LOL, ADD, ADHD, ROFL, MANCESSION, BFG, WYGIWYG, NICBDAT, SLATFATF, IRL, DIFFERENTLY ABLED, ABOVE THE FOLD, SO FAR AHEAD OF THE CURVE THAT I MAY BE IN A PROCESS OF BECOMING THE CURVE Credit Score: 119 not out. Rain stopped play. Isla’s moan-ad had read as follows: Female, 27 (hails from Manchester, New Hampshire) - GSOH, HTML, CD-ROM, LLAL, COTFLGOHAHA, LOIS, WYGIWYPF, TEOTWAWKI, LOREM IPSUM FACTO, COSTCUTTER PER CLICK, TE SAINT LAWRENCE RIVER, KIWI TE KANAWA (CANADA), TE Credit Score: Schwarzian derivative + Leibniz1646. ♍. They both realised the minute they read each other’s advertisements that they might ultimately turn out to be BOF. Ever the twain might meek. They decided instantly to turn the other cheeky girl. This was because they both shared similar Pauline Quirkes as well as an underlying GSOH but also had different and opposite-attractive primary attributionazoids such as BFG and LLAL, which meant that they had the opportunity for a complementationalism, in the manner of the colours red and green. Chocks asway. After all, if you don't buy a ticket you don't win the littery. ####

2. Morale, panic.
Failure to disclosure Karmascores prior to a date is, in the dystopian brave new world in which Tristram and Isla live, ill legal. You could shrug your atlases and zamyatin your huxleys all you like but if you galt you get johnned, no matter how aynrandy your objectivisms. The change in the law was because of the factdroid that 0.0056% of dates failed as a result of lack of disclosives, thus leading to a governmentspasm to address the matter with immediate affectation. There had been examples of people with high differentials in their general karmapoints commingling, thus leading to


Disharmoniosity. This had then created a Media Few-Roary when journalistas discovered the incidents and incidence of Disharmoniosity and then applied Surette's law to them, making it appear that they were very common events rather than as uncommon as a blue moon inside a David Conn. Several commentators suggested that this might even be the decline of the Oswalds and the Spenglers. There was exaggerage flying around in every direction. Goats were scaped. ♑. As a result, many Politicrocks and Elected Reprehensatives had tilted at J.S.Mill's wind and isaiah berlined their irvings. They had resolved to Do Something About It and had got straight on to their high horses and ridden to the land of Positive Liberty armed with writing by Stanley Cohen. Within slopped seconds they had written a law making sure that people with inappropriate levels of dharmatics could not conjunction-vitus and bra their mins and minims in an unguarded and unchaperwronged fashion. This led to a comprehensive tightening up of the world of speed doting. So, bearing in mind the provisions of the new Regulation of the Acts of Intermingling and Coterminous Commingling Act (2017), Isla read the advertisement, realised this might be the Shove At First Byte she had been dreaming of since she was a little girl playing with biologically essentialist toys such as pink princesses and knights in shining amour, and contacted Tristram via wii-fee. Instantly Tristram faxaguzzl’d his Karmascore back to Isla and they both realised, ad hoc, nolens volleyballs, and hod procter coq, that their mutually aggregated Karmascores were coterminous by law. There were no basic imponderances or impermanences. Furthermore, computating their overall Interest rate through their Spare Time Hobby and Lifestyle algorhythm apps on their iDeas and their heldhands they worked out that there was only a 1.56% probability of major psychogeographical antimony or alimony between them if they met in real life, and a high chance of a venndiagram. They might even get dewey decimal. It all seemed to be slim shady fiftygrey. So it was… Vale, um! Pro-zacked! Date on! 無常! 무상! อนิจจัง!

3. Ethics & Underthenet.




It is a truth acknowledged by Universal Pictures that a man and a woman in the 21 st centurion in pursuit of a fortuna may find it easier to become a honeypot site to a potential paramour on the intrazoid than In Real Life.

Although we use it to connect, people who like to spread general fear like to point out that it is in some ways a disconnect. Apparently and apparitionally, the heightened use of the intrazoid has made it more difficult for many of us to socialise and converse IRL. Many of us are now entirely unable to pick up on verbal clues and cluedough as a result of our extenuated use of the intrazoid. Some suggest it is even re-wiring our brans. Others argue that it is stoking our brams. If things continue like this, we may soon be liable to become one of Arthur C.Clarke's billion names or even become I, Robots. So although Tristam and Isla had shandied each other online, it was not yet at all clear that they would lawrence their sternums in person. The bonsai diagram below shows clearly how the intrazoid is leading to the re-wiring of the human bonce:

:2. So in the Inter Age, many dates are figs. And a lot of nets turn out to drag. And much of the bana is pretty ikky. And a high percentage of the fauna isn't very floral. And things didn't start so well, because Tristram was twenty seven minutes late. This was because his satnav was mulfunctioning and it directed him in nadsat. However, from the moment that their eyeglazzies first welkinned each other, they were fully leverag’d.

Abstracted from: Gagarin, J, 2012, “The ramiffifififfifififfifications of the intrazoid for humano-cognitive-neuraximander relationships and interpersonal communi-K-shuns”, Aligatarzilla: University of Aligatarzilla Press, 86:342 (112 + 342 = 454)

Instantly their body language formed a successful Mirror Site and after the early Firewall fell away there quickly leveraged a succession of rapid-fire FAQs. In short, dear Reader, they passed through the Gateway, found each other’s Gopher Jewels, Bin-Hex’d, Kermit’d and mistletoed their piggies straight away. Within seconds Tristram had already used his superhero powers to make a map of Isla’s bits and the Boolean Operator inside Isla’s brainzone had gone bananas when she saw what a lovely chiselled jaw Tristram had, in the manner of a Renaissance sculpture. He was proper Leonardo of Finchley. Right away she wanted to Dot Pinch his Modulation Protocol, Quicktime his Random Access Memory, Vector File his Viewdata and Veronica his Video RAM. Physiologicallygnomically, it was a win-winter tale. Isla underwent a 3.9 increase in the Hot Flush Index. Tristram went through an Edison ++5.3 (AAA rated 3) and this led to a Perspicacity Perspiration. Instantly Tristram decided to Leverage his Gearing Forecast and created an Initial Public Romance Offering (IPRO) by offering to buy Isla a drink. Even at this stage, beta waves in their cortices and cerebral bellums were being turned alfalfa. She then adopted an Open Position in relation to the IPRO by rapidly lowering her Indifference Curves. Sensing the absence of Circuit Breakers, Tristram therefore decided to lower the Caveat Emptor and up the stakes from Bibulous Subprimus to Champagne Stock. He did this in the hope of surges on the Leading Lipstick Indicator. Tristram and Isla then spent a considerable amount of time Twittering and Tittering. They discovered not only did they have high levels of Price Elasticity in each other’s stock options and vegetable stocks, but also that they had high levels of Prose Elasticity in their conversation. They were well cosy in their poses and poesy. Here is a diagram (or rather, a dire gramme) of the hour and a half datum intercessionam between Tristram and Isla:

The Standard and Poured assessment of perspiration-inspiration, calculated on how many moodies there are per fitch and how many teslas per inch.

The dip in the middle shows a low point in the date where the cucumber and dip arrived and Tristram accidentally dropped dip all over Isla. This raised enormous fears in Tristram on the basis of painful and traumatic Icarus Factor memories from romantic liaisons in his early 20s. This then led to a lowering of total Units as Tristram disapp’d off into a world of his own and a world of diss-pair when he remembered his experiences as a Torpedo Stock. In fact it took him back to his first relationship with a woman which had broken down over time because he kept dropping things when he was with her. The trauma then led to a cessation of dialogue which led to a resultant Unit Crash which was almost as bad as Wall Street in 1929. This was swiftly negotiated, however, through the leveraging of Isla’s Emotive Intelligentsia (EI) leading to a general rise in Units again. In the graph, the periods where the path of Units travels backwards in time show moments where Tristram and Isla decided to kryogenetically freeze time and travel back briefly to moments in the date where they felt it necessary to erase their behaviour and re-draw it. Tristram was not able to travel back in time to completely minorityrep the dip in the middle because after over-leveraging he had limited Time Travel Credits and so could only choose to use them to modify more minor accidentals such as forghettoing the long seven minute narrative Isla had just created about her grandparents and the fact that they lived in Nova Scotia and trained dachsunds for a living and then, almost straight away, blunderbussingly asking her if she had any grandparents. There was also an embarrassing moment in the early satsuma when the Margin Pressure was increased as a result of Tristram conducting a Market Overhang when he got caught up in the Hot Waitress Economic Index when the waitress brought them both some Credit Crunch to eat. Isla noticed this but politely steered the conversation away from the HWEI and the matter was brushed under the flying carpet.

Towards the end of the date it was very clear that the initial Market Jitters, which might even have led to overall Market Cannibalisation, had been overcome and that the Market Sentiment was tending towards Market Swoon. And soon. This led to a surge on the Comparison To A Summer’s Day Index and at the end of the date, as they left the restaurant, Isla even managed to create a rhyming couplet in the manner of the end of an Act in a Shakespearean comedy, which was as follow-up: Let’s leave the restaurant Do you want to come back to mine for a cup of coffee and a croissant? Tristram instantly recognised that on the Female Choice Theory of Human Attracticoidalism (FCT/HA), this represented the sealage of the dealage. They added each other to each other’s Topple Rate and the rest, as they don’t say, was hose story. Particularly in the nacreous light of the morning’s glory.

4. Commingle. Come, mingle.
The next day Tristram and Isla spend all day in bed lounging about like a Donald Byrd. They stay all day, didymous. Slower than gin. Outside the children in the local school playground wattle and daub. Inside, it's all an + bn = cn. “I’m involved in talent management” says Tristram. “Oooo, you prodigal sun.” “Right ongar. I recently ended a period of garden leave, did some cold calling, had an exit interview, got a golden handshake, got head hunted by a human resources executive search, and I’ve seen a 200% hike in my pro rata OTE.” “Oh, em, gee.” “Sloanerange. I wasn’t happy where I was because the affiliative leadership style didn’t suit my core competencies. Boss was a douchebagpuss. Gave me desk rage. Before that I was a Mortar Logistics Engineer Intermodulatorer for a while and then a Beverage Disseminationiser Officer Apparatchick.” “Suprafrontal lobe. I’m a Transparency Enhancement Faciliator Operative”, says Isla. “I was a Mobile Sustenance Agglomeration Facilitator Extraordinairiaria for a couple of years but I wasn’t happy with the coercive leadership style of the organisation so I’ve been a TEF for the past three. And I’ve done a TEFL, an ESOL, a TESOL, an ESL, an EAL, an EIL, a ELF, an ESP, an EAP, an ELL, a LEP, a CDO and a CLD. I was able to do all those because of my highly advanced and highly leveraged ELS.” “ELS?” “Effective Listening Skills.” “Oh. So not Entry Level Separation then.” “LOL, no. You’re a silly boy, Tristiana. You're a peter yorkiebarr.” “Haha, sorry, couldn’t resist that one!” “You’re a joker.” “I’m a toker.” “You’re a midnight smoker.” “I’m a space cowboy.” “You’re a midnight cowboy.” “I’m Gaucho Marx.”

Isla deliquesces into Tristram’s arms and charms. “I’ve just got a new Special Investment Vehicle on the company actually. Goes pretty well and decent fuel to gallon ration. Total double gravity rainbow. Only runs on a tiny pynchon of gastro. Drivin' a real George Carlin at last.” Tristram descrives the motor. In voce meticulosa. “Phantasmagorical, honeylips. If only I could be so positive about my DNA stem. My sister Natasja is a NEET, you see” says Isla. “She was a Telecommute Teleprospector for a really short period of time and then we tried to get her involved in some Involuntary Entrepreneurship and then she just totally alienated out of everything again.” “Sounds problematico”. “Tis. I love her to bits but she’s a dropkick. She’s a desquamate. Total unadulterated fax-puppet. I’m worried she’s going to be outsourced.” “I know what you mean. Same with my brother Joe.” “Joe?” “Yahyahyah. It’s, like, totally his payback period now. We’ve tried time and again to work out what his USP is and he just won’t play balloon.” “Hmmmm.” “Gets all Aristophanes wasp the minute I even mention USP. He’s just not actionable. Or auctionable. Refuses to fly in a golden para shoot.” “Exactimappamundi. Same with Natasja. Won’t drink the koolio aid. Refuses to ever touch base metals or think outside the boxcar willy.” “How old is Natasja?” “Natastriophe is 21.” “J-O is 22. Maybe it’s a generational thing. Maybe it’s a whole generational 404 error.” “Could be one Heller of a Catch22.” “Yossarian.” “Could be, yeah.” “Natch.” “North career.” “Yeah.” “How much is that doobie in the window.” “The one with the waggly Canterbury tale.” “Doobie or not doobie, that is the Questia.” “Chore, sir.” “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Isla widgets her spamdex and places her pagerank on a mashup. “So how much of a level playing field are your predictors of beaconicity then?” Tristram desults. “Ah, not so great to be honest,” Isla detrudes. “I did some blue sky thinking and tried to look for a can-do-culture but just got stuck with a load of double devolution. Used the wrong revenue streams on my potentialities and pulled my improvement levers into the value-added subsidiarity symposium.” “Gobbledegooglegook. Googleperplexes.” “Exactly. Tristram, could you pour me a glass of hydro-oxy? I’m dipsotic. This dialogue is dipsetic.” Dexiotropic (for the sink in the little bedroom is on his right), Tristram demerges water into the glass until it defluents down the sides of the glass, hands it to Isla, and Isla deglutitions. The water in the glass decrescents and devalls. “Ah, now I’m dégagé,” Isla disbosoms. “♒.” “I know it’s early in our connection, and maybe it’s not the right time to ask, but what about previous relationzoidals?” Tristram differentials. “Haha, Dysfunction Junction.” “Authentic?”

“Yeah, totally. My last BOYF was called Hermann. He was an artiste. Total primadonna. It was a disaster asteroid.” “What kind of artist?” “Recondite. Used to do a lot of post-conceptual, post-installation, neo-concrete, neosyncretic, neo-plasticene, netart, neue kunstler-kraut neo Kim Wildean neo-geo ネオ ジオ.” “Jesus Christo. Chi-ro practor.” “Yes, he pretty much thought he was. He called all his work ‘spanners’. You know, spanners in the works. He had a manifesto written in hieroglyphs, 850,000,000 pages long on a Word document that was so long he had to keep it on fifteen separate Mac lapdogs. He wrote it all in this new font he designed, a series of hieroglyphics he called Hierophant.” “Queneau.” “I know. And it was all about how his spanners were going to bring down the turbocasino-trickledown-laisserfarce-post-FordistTaylorite-post-welfarist-postindustrial stage of international monopoly-imperial capitalwasm and bring about the new teleological order of anarcho-communebabble where the state we're in withers away and we all get become engels on top of the christmas tree.” “Filly gree.” “To be honest I never had any idea what on earth he was talking about.” “Gorges of perec.” “He once admitted to me when he was drunk that he didn’t know what he was on about either but that the more complicated he made everything the easier it was to get funding. All looked like a giant Sokal hoax to me. I read three pages of his manifesto and I had migraines for a month. The doctor had to be put me on a trochiscus. ” “Jesus Chrysler.” “Yep.” “Wooshballs.” “The last spanner he did before we split our bananas was a massive transcendentalist triptych called “Trypanocide” where he walked on water inside a John Cage.” “Jesus Crepes. Laz R Us.” “Yes, that’s right. Jesus whipped.” “Cream.” “Clappingtons.” “Hieronymous boosch.” “Mighty. By that point he really had wandered full-on into Messiah Complex. I remember the day we split up was when he came in and told me his next spanner was going to be him feeding five thousand kids in a favela with loam and fish-fingers. That was when I needed an out.” “Time to hit the exit fees.” “Rightio. I needed a fixed rate break. It was costing too much emotionally to be around him. It was like being shacked up with a black hole. I was hawking my vortices. My everetts were hughed. That was three years ago. I’ve been a single bagger since then.” “My last yoghurt riflette was a treehugger called Samantha,” Tristram disimmures. “Total treehugger. Used to get me to join all these groups like the United Allied Activists Against the Associations and Agglomerations of Multi-National Transnational Transglobal Corporations. She used to make me tie-dye jumpers with NO GLOBAL and NO LOGOS and NO λόγος written on them with pictures of these two cartoon characters she created, Deluge and Guitari.” “Bhagavad-sitar.” “Yah. Apparently they were rye zomes. We used to go hunt-sabbing and motorwaysubbing. And holding up banners outside military establishments. And holding hands with tambourines in trans-yogic chakra-vegan reincarnational sympositions.”

“Metempsychosister.” “Yeah. It was hardcore-you-know-the-threescore-and-ten.” “Jesus Crispy Duck.” “Yeah.” There is a pause as Tristram eats a blackberry. Isla checks her blackburberry. Her blue is tooth. “Isla!” “Yes, monkey puzzle?” “Can we disomus again? I’m feeling dicephalous. I don’t wanna be dimidated anymore. Deray me, sugar. Come on, let’s make the derodidymus.” Isla dijudicates. “Naughty boy. It’s only been half a flounce since we last doppio’d, Tristessa.” “I know but I’m feeling dandified.” “You’re a hungry little dendriform, ain’t ya? OK, well, sure, mellyflow.” “I wanna be elated.” “Let’s go!”

5. Law, yah.
They spent the night, and into the eoan light, elumbated through their mutualised electrogenesis. Elated and eradiated, illuminated and efflorescent, the next day Tristram and Isla decided to go immediately to the local lawyer’s office to sign a pre-nuptial agreement. Their local lawyer was called AdIdem-Ennomic Ltd. They telephoned the bureau and discovered that it was cratic. They could come in straight away. They resolved to do so immediately suffix the breakage of their fasting. They were both surer about this than a surety bond living in Big Sur. Isla made them both calorie attacks in the little loftcrib-studiopent-condo-cumdesres-suiteden-buytoletlodge that she was renting whilst she studied English English in England before her planned return to the United Etudes to carry on speaking Oscar Wildean English. She reflected briefly on how lucky she was that her father, who was officially known to his colleagues as Something In Finance (SIF) and birth certificated as Weldspar Glorieta, was paying for her to have this little Grand Tour. It was awesomer than the blossom of an awesome possum called Awesome Nawesome who has been fed on awesome sauce his whole life and has been living with his wife Awesome Magawesome inside a city called Awesome Fawsome. She sent Weldspar SIF-Glorieta a thought zep. It travelled across the Atlantis ocean at a discount premium (she was trying to be relatively frugal with Daddy’s sugar). The thought zep said: Pater mystrum, thank you so much for your provision of resources for this trip. I have never been to the Eurozone Formerly the European O’Neon formerly the European Economical Communitarian formerly the European Coal and Steeleye Spandex Community before. It is opening up vast new frontiers for me, which is good, because I am, as you know, an American, and our entire post-indigenous history is the history of the frontier. They speak funny here and have things like history and thatched roofs. I feel brighter than Zelda Fitzgerald after a Zandra Rhodes hair dye. And I have met a young Ingrish called Tristram and we have decided to immediately sign a pre-nup. My studies are progressing well and now suddenly – CRASH! – here is Tristram in my life! Megagong! <soundEffect>!

The unconscionable mind of Weldspar SIF-Glorieta, dozing in his office in Manhattan Transfer, caught the thought hindyburg, scanread it, and sent back a flash crash A-OK.... <basically none of my business, since I have spent so many backgreens on the ironing out of my Electra complex that now it is only operating between a range of bearmin 3.5% to bullmax 8.9% and therefore I am basically not concerned by my daughter’s choice of relationazoids - so honey your thought zep is affirmed through essential negation> by super-fast Fed Reserve Dos Passos. Concordia paternalitis! Green light for gojo like Flo-jo in the dojo! She cascaded a melon into a fruitgrape and caffeined a mocha. Tristram rubbed the sleep from his eyes and the eyes from his sleep and gowned his dressing. He bucked and mulligan’d up and down the staircase. He enzoned his belly with a belt made of éolienne. Isla was ephestian around him. “My daddio says yessio to our prenup, Count of Monte Tristo. Feeling edacious, dear?” she warbled. “Hell yeah! Fill me up like a polly filler.” “Comin’ right up! Hope you got an appetite!” “Ho-de-hi-hoe yes siree mulango bingo bango!” “Woot woot whoop wah wah pedal to the medal!” “Jingo jingle jongle jingo Reinhardt! “Ad Reinhardt Ad Infinitum!” Tristram settled downsize. “Seriously, this pre-nup is a grand idea. We need to ensure that all stakeholders in this relationship are fully cascaded,” said Tristram as he munched cornflakes in the manner of a cereal killer. “I totally remit,” enantiopathed Isla enthusiastically as she yolked. Steam rose in fusillades from the hotpan. In hotpants, Isla skipped across to the table and matriarchally served out the condimentalism into condominiums as Tristram phallocentrically waffled whilst getting stuck into his waffles. “Yes big up to the Isla Massive on this breakingfast,” he epaenetic’d. “Happy?” “Happy meal MacHappy Clappy Scottish play”. “Goodly.” “Verily.” “Litany.” “You’re a legend, this breakfast is totally bigbanging, Isla. You’ve smashed it. You’ve bounced harder than Tigger on acid-drops.” “Ah, diddums-dums.” “C’est chic.” “Magnifique.” “Totally mint. Respect da vibe.” “Oooh, nixie-trixie-pixie-geldedpeachy” “Slammin it. BOOM FUNKATRONICA. Pumping like a pump action pumpkin. Nouvelle Varg. Bossa terranova. Big shout out to the Isla. I’m gonna throw a diva.” “Aahh, ya little corndog maize sunflower seed, you,” Isla laughed. “You little sorghum soya bean. You cottonseed sugarbeet. You grape of Joseph Roth.” In the background a radio talk phone-in chatter dribbles its daily spleenvent.

Taxi drivers and lorry drivers fulminate against single mother immigrant tax credit benefit welfare cheat-headlines. The host holy ghosts and lets them rage against the dying of the right-on. Tristram ate ravishingly. “Seriously, this pre-nup is the Way Forward. Acer than a Federer-Nadal service. More people should dot the I’s and cross the t’s before diving in bed first. In my relationslop with Samantha, we couldn’t have our cake and eat it because we didn’t face the music by stepping up to the platter right from the off. At the end of the day that meant we were totally Xerox subsidied right across the piece. Marry antoinette curtains.” “Same with me and Herman,” Isla ecphonensistered as she coffee’d her filter. “Right from the get-go we totally failed to nail down the granularity. The result was that going forward we faced a deficit of unyielding integrity.” “Right. You can’t be too careful these days. You have to mitigate impacts.” “Deep impacts.” “Right. You have to tia your leones otherwise it's surgery leone.” “4 shore.” “You need to swap your defaulted credits before the opening bell otherwise it’s net curtains faster than you can say ‘Netiquette Netbook’.” “Exactly Tristy. We’re signing from the same carol service here. If you don’t hedge your helicopter view it’s almost certain you’ll just end up herding cats when the chips are downtowned and abbey downton'd.” “Yep. Petula’d and Clark’d. Couldn’t agree more.” “Egregious.” “Problem is, sometime you’ve gotta eat a reality sandwich, so why not eat the frog and do it ASAP? Otherwise it’s a one-way ticket to SOSville. Then you’re under the frog down a dole-mine. You're the Tibor Fischer king. And you’re going AWOL faster than you can say MIA. Or faster than you can write an NDA about MDMA.” “MBA, babe. With ya, sweetpea. You’ve got to enail it all down first. You’ve got to eighty-six your even dead cat bounces and godspeed your dead flag blues. It’s the only way to extract the maximus from your taximus.” Isla crystallined the sugar out of the tatehenry and sprinkled it over the ebrious. Tristram malaprop’d the tatehenry and spoonerism’d the sugar all over his lysander. “Sure. Otherwise it’s like trying to nail jelly to the wailing wall,” he said as he gullivered. “Right.” “Which would be a real cluster-flux.” “A full-on goofazi.” “A 19 Delta 13 Foxtrot 96 Uniform.” “An 11 Juliet Bravo.” “A nah-nah-nah-nah 19.” “Yes siree daddio head honcho.” “Gotta follow your hunches to eat the right lunches.” “Need the skillz to pay the duckbillz.” “Platypus.” “Platitudes.” “Platipedia.” “More Credit Crunch, honeymandeville?” “Yes please Isla Bonita, I’d be all over that like elephant investment groups at the eleventh hour on an exploding offer.” “A little digression, babychampers,” Isla ecboled, “but do you think it would be possible for me to meet your parents as soon as possible? As well as all your work colleagues, your friends from the local community, your friends from your university days, your friends from pre-university, and your assorted social netwoks and cyberchumps? I don't wanna be clingyfilm but we do live in the Age of Twitter-Twatter.

Everything's ecstatic and everything's exponential. We need to do things fast otherwise the world might stop turning on its Axl Rose.” Tristram gulped. “Of course, hypocristic.” he said, galumphing down the remainder of his toast like Godzilla on a last remaining hint of hinterland. “Any slack-off might lead to a bull market in Kevin Smiths.” “Exactly, gorgeous Gorgon,” says Isla as she drifts away from the dining-tablature and embrocates the embrasure and embayments. Erasure come on the radio. “It’s amazing how much we see eye-to-eye, face-to-face, B2B, peer to pier, F2F, Budapest-Bumako and forecast-to-fulfill. Just think – we both put ads in a newspaper and suddenly here we are like two halves of a Platonic whole reunited” she ejaculatisizes. “Yes but that’s obviously just the initial honeyloon stage,” Tristram ganders. “Which is why we need to sign this pre-nup as soon as permissive. Because after this initial six-month serotonin rush we’re going to be hitting Petty Argumentgrad and we’re going to need lexicographical backup when the shut hits the flan.” “Yes, that’s true,” Isla entresols as she waters the flowers in the mezzanine. “Like, who is morally reprehensible in the case of a small tiff over the failure to take out the recycling?” “Right.” “Or who is legislatively inturpitudinous in the case of a protracted six month period of mutual adulterisation? Like, if we both Lewinsky at around the same time, does that mean that we’re both illegitimate or is it the one who Charles II’d first off in terms of timeholes? And is that a deal-breaker or can we re-solder the circuit with a couple of LEDs and get the PCB back on the roadshow?” “Hmmmmmm.” “D’ya dig me?” “Gotcha like Zac de la Rocha, baby. Digging you up like an allotment.” “Let’s face it, we’re gonna run into choppy waters. It’s a historical inevitability like Karl Marx reaching his teleological historical materialist endpoint in Highgate cemetery. If we get a pre-nup then we won’t Niagara over.” “Blondin, babe. Debbied and harried.” The flowers look up at Isla and sing her little songs of gratitude for the water in a language beyond the electromagnetic spectrum comprehensible by ordinary human beings without telepathical powerlines. “When you put it like that, Tristle, it’s just basic honest to goodness, old school, clearsighted, common-or-garden sense. That’s very much an invocation of a healthy and sensible reality principle over the infantile vagaries of the pleasure principle. You’re a lovely, beautiful term of endearment you know, Tris. I want to get all id over your superego.” “And you’re a gorgeous diminutive, Isla.” “And you’re a wonderful significant other.” “And you’re a fantastic petit shoe, twinklestar.” “Let's never tryst. Let's amylthyst.” “♐.” “禅.”

6. Phishermen.
The lawyer’s office was furnished in the very latest style – all Regency Beau Brimming. Lots of faux finishes.

It was feng-shui’d, a la mode, all mod cons, 100% air con, wall-to-wall lexicon icons, very few neo-cons. On the walls of reception were videcons showing 24 hour newsicons. Above the reception hotdesk was a plaque bearing the legend “Best Eleutherian Law Service in the Saddler’s Worth area, 1994”. Next to that was a plaque bearing the legend “Decision to no longer bother gaining any certifications or prizes post-1994 when the partners Mr.AdIdem and Mr.Ennomic decided that because of a general devaluation of certifications related to a general devaluation of language itself any prizes gained in the post-1994 period would be of ever decreasing value, in the manner of the debased coinage of a medieval monarch butterfly.” They were fedstreamed through the reception by the receptionsister and into the fizzycalc where they leafed through a Lotus 1-2-3 as they waited their Marc Anthony Turnage. Suddenly there was a massive boosey.com in the room. “GOOD MOANING genteelhominid and ladygagoid,” roarshacked Mr.AdIdem as he ushered them into his commodity. “Now I understand that you are interested in singing a pre-nup, is that correction fluid?” He was louder than a frystephen doing a hashtag. “nuqneH! yI’el! qaStah nuq?” eton-rifled Mr.Ennomic. He was the Laurie of the huge outfit. He looked a lot like Huge Grant. Neither Tristram nor Isla were quite able to hush an answer. Every single wall of the atrium was a fishaquarium. The eyes of African glass lungfish and the dorsals of European flounder minnows backforthed and bulged in every omnidimension. The pair were temporarily medusa’d. “Yes,” managed Tristram. “Er, yes. Yes. ” “Fishyes,” Isla’d. “Fishyes. Um, fishyes.” “Yes.” “Fishyes, fish. Yes. Yesfish.” As she said it a Mexican golden cavetrout appeared to give her a wink from centreleft. She tried to work out whether it was a pleasant wink or a conspiracytheory but she couldn’t manage it because time was speeding up. This was because Mr.AdIdem and Mr.Ennomic had discovered that an accelerated time prozess was conducive to juicier justicebusiness. They had, in fact, just set their time rate to Hawking that very mourning. “GOOD. Correctional institution it most certainly is, I hope and glory” said Mr.Ennomic. “A young couple these days cannot be too prophylactational when it comes to the law.” “No law, no score draw no win no fee no free loss,” chipped in Mr.AdIdem. “That’s right. No law, no loss leader. No code EEN.” “Yes. No law, no nobody give no toss.” “Yes. No law= Genghis Can’t.” “Yes, no law = sticky wicket spintoss spindry.” “Yes. No law, no spinoffs.” “No spinneys, no spinsterhoods, no spinifex.” “Spindoctors.” “Two princes.” “Machiatelly.” “Yes.” Fishgulge. “Yes, particularly if you’re a lovely trendsetting hip-hopster gold-collar paninaro couple like yourself selves.”

“Oh, if you’re a smartcouple in a smartcar with a smartphone like you two then the law is even more imperative.” “Yes, even more importunate.” “Yes.” “And that’s why it’s so sad how many of your Generation Y chromosome ignore the law.” “Yes, oh yes. Tragically nothip.” “Yes.” “Generation X marks the spot price.” “Yes.” “Yes, as even a lovely model pair of bandwagon effects like your good self selves knows, after all, as anyone who’s ever read a paragraph of Kafka knows, life can be a trial,” said Mr.AdIdem. “That’s right. It sure can-do.” “Yes.” “Yes, that’s right. Even for a hot-stock, nose-on-the-flows, memedelivering pair of glitterbug jitterbugs like your shelf shelves.” “Yes. Life can be a triage.” “Uh-huh. No law in your armoury = big punchbowl in the facebonk.” “Gross harmoury.” “Mmm-hmm. Gross point blankety-blank.” “Yes.” “Yes. Unless you prove yourself gilt-free before being innocentivised,” quipped Mr.Ennomic. Mr.AdIdem and Mr.Ennomic laughed in the manner of preter-programmed spiderdroidbots. There was a pause almost as large as cat’s paws. Fish swimmed. Everybody realised simultaneously that this was not the first time this joke had been crackpiped in this office. This led to a brief shoegaze. “Yes…er, yes.” said Tristram, filling the voidance after the happalaughus. “Yes,” echo-chambered Isla. “Fishyes.” “Er, yes.” “Fish and squiggles.” “Beer and skittles.” “Beer and sandwiches.” “Yes.” An Oriental kenloach and a South American Dolly Darter Varden swam almost into what seemed to be Isla’s peripheralvideo as she affirmed. “We’re here to sign a pre-nup. Like Isla said, we’re here, that’s why we’re here. That’s why.” “Yes.” she wind-tunnelled. “We’re here to sign a fish-nap.” “Yes, we are. A catnip.” “Yes. That’s why we’re hearing today.” “To make one and then – “ “Fish it.” “Yes.” “HISlaH, HIja. A pre-nup, you say?” “Yes, a pre-nup. That’s why we’ve jukeboxed our juries. Our Ian Duries.” Piscinegulp. Headblock.

7. Lore, courting.
“Supreme tennis court. Well you’ve come to the right place. I can see immediately what a lovely coupling you are and I can see how very happening you are together.

We like to see a young, thrusting, vigorous pair of limousine liberationals like you in our office womb. You’ve come to the right place,” enunciated Mr.AdIdem. “Yes,” hypno-affirmed Mr.Ennomic in between the swam fish. “You’ve definitely plaiced to the right come.” ”You have indeed. I don’t want to eat boast toast but we’ve got the highest pie rate per law-quanta in capita town.” “Yes, don’t want to stick a boast-it note on the boastagram, but we’ve been a paperless office since 2004.” “We’ve been rightshoring, holistically solutionary, elevator pitch event horizoned, and touch-base, value-added, 100,000,000% upstream since 2006.” “Indeed.” “Indeed of assignment,” expostulated Mr.AdIdem. ”Indeed we have. Indeed we are. Indeed you are. Indeed we all are. Indeed everything is. Indeed all creatures that grate and smell. In the right place.” “That’s right.” “We’re meaner and leaner than David Lean.” “Yes. We’re logicaller than David Lodge.” “We're mobbed more than - “ “David Lynch.” “We call in the pickets – “ “To come in hot.” “We’re flying.” “Lotus.” “Flying Attack Porcupine.” “Flying Castelli.” “HELO JAFO.” “J-LO Biafo.” “We’re not so-so.” “We’re yo-yo.” “We got the flow” “We’re totally escrow.” “Indeedy 500. You used your sixth intuitions to realise this is the right place and then, hey presto sauce, you came here and now, abracadabra, here you are.” “Just like dat.” “In the right place.” “Hell on a cheesecake, yes.” “Tort tortellini, yes.” “A happening, totally with it, totally nikbeat young exciting couple soup.” “Yes, here, right here, right now, right now right here. Where it’s at, where it’s hot, where it’s hip replacement.” “Having travelled from somewhere else, to here.” “Yes, A to B.” “And now sitting here.” “Sitting in chairs.” “Chairs in the middle of the right place.” “Right. Right chairs, right chairs on right carpet, bang to rights.” “Civilian rights. Great Society.” “Right.” Fishblow. A silence swells into the air con like a showing of “Con Air” on an aeroplane. Everybody in the room looked at each other like karate operatives wondering who should go first at ice aging an iceblock. Just to meltdown the ice-sheet, Tristram nearly began a random observation about Emersonian transcendentalism and how that relates to the syncopated rhythmical drumming patterns of the jazz ensemble Polar Bear but was put off by an icefish and

a Japanese Jack Demsey eel which suddenly seemed to float inside his very hypothalamus. His mind glacial melted. It was darkness at moon. “Now the procedure is incredibly simple.” Mr.AdIdem adidemed, jumping in like a tagwrestler tagging a social netwok photo. “Incredulously simple.” “Yes, we’re not going to open the interrogates.” “No.” “Yes.” “Sluice.” “Floodplain the membrane.” “Exactly.” “Cyrus Vance, Cypress Hill.” “Yes.” “Cyrus AD-vance.” “Yes. Gogol AdSense.” “Yes.” “Sey.” “Shay-shay.” “eBay.” “Yes.” “Yes, to recap, it’s more simple than somebody scapegoated with the crimes of a local community during the medieval witch-hunting period.” “Yes. It’s totally dunceproof.” “Yes. Back to basically, we use state-of-the-article PET-MRI-FOOTSIE100 nanobrain scanning equipment to take a fieldmouse of your brain zozzles which then gives us a full contour node of your entire compatibility convergence and potential divergence diversity. We then use an osprey lens to cross-platform and hone all of that datum into a special bespoke manumatic readout magicroundabout vortal.” “That’s right. And that vortal is 100% legal and has in-built 100% wikiality.” “Exactly. And that vortal also has a complete analysis of all your possible China syndromes and Stockholm syndromes, all of which are cross-hatched to a semantic markup of your astrological birth runes.” “Yepsville.” “Right. You’ll then go back to reception and our receptionist Missy Moneypenury will fuzzy logic all your credit carts. You’ll be a thousand wongals cheaper off and the brand new spanking owners of a fully turkey-basted pre-nuptical vortal.” “That’s right. It’s optimus, not subprime.” “Ex-Ovid, ex-ovo.” “Yes. Deus ex cathode ray.” “Sure.” “Sureyes.” “Yes. Elizabeth Wurtzel Gummage.” “Gummy bear market.” “Exactly.” “You can random access your pre-nuptical vortal at any hour of the daybreak through a smartphone, an iScream, a user agent, a brutal deluxe, a speedball, a cascading sheet style or a safari opera modulated through a foxfire chrome nested inside a dreamweaver.” “Yes. It’s a vorpal vortal.” “That’s right. It’s a vorticist vorpal vortal vortal.” “Yes. It’s fully compatible with a Wyndham Lewis. It’s totally wireless. It’s a Mark E Silversmith.” “Yup. You can Merlin or Malory, it’s totally up to you.” “Yes. All you need to do is graft a USB on to a JPEG inside a JPOD and you’re in business faster than you can say ‘kulak liquidation’ or ‘Douglas Chickencoopland’.”

“Udon soba.” “It’s no more complexical than that.” “Calexico.” “And then hopefully the pair of you will either spend the rest of your beehives together or will at least find an amicable way of divorcifiying each other as and when you protuberance.” “Clear? All-clear?” “Clear as crystal meth?” Fishtankard. “Good. I’m gladwelled that we malcolm each other. It’s fully vagabondaged. It’s 100 trillion per cent shockproof.” “Hazardproof.” “Spillproof.” “Acidfungusproof.” “Insectidiotproof. Knaveproof. ” “Soundproof, scaleproof, bulletproof.” “Foolproof, fallproof, fileproof, filterproof and futureproof.” “And completely futureshockproof. Totally Toflertastic.” “Yes. And gooseberryfoolproof.” “Yes. And vetofailureproof and velociraptureproof.” “Yes.” “100% clear? No proof required? Good.” “Also, we’ve just augmented our nano-brain with a fully operational floatation therapy so as you lie back and think of Sinland you will also have your temporal lobes mindpodded with solarwave energy which is all 1,000,000% renewbie-able.” “We throw that in for freebie.” “Yes, and you can play tetris-frisbee with your mind’s eye while you’re in there too.” “Yuppie.” “Yippie.” “Scuppie huppie buppie puppie YURP.” “Zippie zip zip ZIRP.” “Yes.” “Exactly. So without further adage let’s spin-up, bong tree our lears and hit the ground runningdog.” “Goodsharkloan.” “Okey-hokey-cokey. INSTALLING PRE-NUP… ███████████░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ 43% DONE.” Mr.AdIdem then fed them into the brain shred.

8. Cred, It.
“Drac, cool, la.” Forty-five minutes of whale music later it was all over. Game, cetacean and mashed. “La vida lobotomy?” klingon’d Mr.Ennomic. “Fully Rickroll Martin’d? Cents and sensibilities?” They were basted out of the captain swing. Their steins were franked and their maries shelled. “Done dealed and dusted. Superbus plenipotentiary,” said Mr.AdIdem expansively, thrusting his arms into the middle-yonder in the manner of an intergalactic dictator doing a photo opp of himself surveying all the slavefactotums grinding away on his planet pods. “Yes,” said Mr.Ennomic. “The composite of your braingraphs have been plotted like a guyfawkes. You’re fully Dasnaq’d.” “Yes,” said Mr.AdIdem.

“Yes,” said Mr.Ennomic. “Yes>>:;>;!!{}+--+>.” addendummed Mr.AdIdem. “古希: εὕρηκα”. “Greatfish,” said Tristram and Isla. “Yes.” “Indeed.” “Yes indeed.” “Indeed yes.” “Inyes deedin.” “Daedelus yesyes.” “Yes. Ick R Us.” Mr.AdIdem gave them a smile hotter than the thousand suns of a toothpaste madvert. “Well, that concludes today’s rectifications and I am now tench and tendentiously happy to say that you are both now entirely primus interail pares, pari passu, and per flagrante delictum. Congratulaxatives.” “Thank you.” “No really, thank you. Thank you both. Thank you bothly.” “Thankfish.” “No, don’t thank the fish. Thank us.” “Gesundheit.” “No, no, bless you.” “Thank you more.” “Yes.” “Sternutation.” “Yes.” “Interjection.” “Interregnum.” “Yes.” “Point of order.” “Yes. Cashpoint of order.” “Yes indeed thank you yes indeed.” “In deed.” “In Bill Deedes.” “Yes.” “In T-bill.” “Yes. In bill of exchange.” “Yes. Buysell.” “Swell.” “Well?” “Gary Bushell.” “Yes.” “Julie Burchill.” “Yes.” “Rickroll.” “Yes inflated by 1000%.” “Hyper-Weimar.” “Yesgasm.” “Peter Paradigm Schiff.” “Yesgasm Double Alpha Alpha Doubloon Alphatraz Alphaville.” “Yes. Borgesian Aleph.” “Alphavillage Capone. Truman Show Capote.” “Yes. Italian Gonzalo Lira.” “Than Q.” “Yes, gilt-edged 007.” “Luther Blissett.”

“Yes. Hellyes. Fishyes.” “Humuhumunukunukuapua'a.” “Nine years, no parole. But lots of langue.” “Yesyes. So sure.” “Not to be released except in custardy.” “Rhubarb crumb balls..” “Wu Ming. Pie seas.” “♓. Have a bottle of Krugman on us.” “Keynes Ian. Happenstance.” “Buddenbrooks.” “Yeah, Mann.” “Ramen.” “♈.” And so it all ended hapologically ever after, in the manner of an autotune. Their thousand currencystagflations were processed by Missy Moneypenury through the credit machhiato. As it tickertaped, Mr.Ennomic emerged from the aquariatrium. Gretelfaced, he hanselled, ““We could throw in a full-bore, pre-emptive confession for free, that will cover all major inflagrations of the law, at no extra cost beyond the extra cost of an extra 1,000 wongals? With a free Raskolnikov clause at only another free extra 1,000 dingbats?” Momentarily blanched, both Tristram and Isla’s right to silence was interpolated as a Larkin yes. The credit a-la-carted. A thousand flowers bloomtowned. Rivendell, two whom. What will survive of us is love poetry. ♎.

9. Marr, Ridge.
From dust to feather dusters, from the ashes to the wednesdays of sheffield. Till debt do us partridge. Flushing like meadows, the happy couple then walked out of the lawyertorium into the sunset with the documental below clutched in their handkerchefs. They felt entirely at one with nature, the universe and each other’s win-wins. Light yeared around them, any-angled, endgamelessly. They couldn’t have been happier if they were prime rated performance bonds promissory-noted and tranched inside two parallel high-yielding, tax-exempt, nostro and vostro transaction deposit accountants. They had base-touched. They’d been stressed, tested, stress-tested and tested for stress. All the fulfilment issues at base camp one on their Relation Everest had been aggregated, immersed, scalabilitied, bricked and clicked. In black and whiting. They’d sherpa’d, they’d tensinged. They’d talked, they’d torqued, they’d Torquemada’d. Their ratio of capital adequacy had been topped and tiered. They’d been triple Basel’d and quadruple Davos’d to the hilt. They were gladed, ever. ♌.

They came out, went straight to the webbing shop, bought a load of confetti, and chucked it all over each other while some standers went by and while some ambulators purred. In the background some bells did a Quasimoto. Some cars rev’d and hollandered their toms. “Dibley! Dibley!” some people frenched and dawnchorused. They took photos of each other and instantly put them online. They tagged them with elementary nouns and verbs and also a little pot-pourri of intermediary punctuation. Within moments friends and workcolleagues had like-clicked and lovewebbed. There was a ♥ ❤ ❥ ❣ ❦ ❧ gush. It was a poke-a-thon. It was a full-on web 3.0. It was more webbed than some thumbs. It was a royal tea wedding. It was a middletoon and pippasqueak. They were nickledimed, sticklebricked, nicklebacked, odeonnickled, oceaneleavened, tickled front and back, and entirely ehrenreiched. It was a stiglitz with twiglets. It was an affluenza cadenza. They were on the de botton. Into each other’s quicksand they amper’d and camber’d. It was checkout like a supermarket aisle. It was Game, Massachusetts and Match. ♋. This is the documental: PRE-NUPTIAL AGREEMENT/ARRANGED MARRIAGECARRIAGE FOSTERED BETWEEN MR.TRISTRAM TURNHAM-GREEN AND MIZZ.ISLA GLORIETA, 18TH LOBSTER-THERMIDOR, Ten hour clock o'ten o'clock, 2017 The Honourable AdIdem-Ennomic Limited Liability (Vaccus Mirabilis, Svengarlic) Ref. i18n/ICQ/PHP/Debian/Ada Lovelace (Backronym)
Dearly besmothered. We are gathered here to witness the harrisonford. The undersigned, in conjunctivitis with the undercarriage, and in full remonstration with the undercroft, the underground, the underbridge and the underwit, do hereby declarative and hopelessly underwrite, de jure and de novo, and, pursuant to Section 45(MIN) and 2CV (KORG) of the 2017 Acquittal Act, that the heretoforthmentioned COUPLE (composed of said two NATURAL PERSONS) neither of whomsoever have ever been found gilt-ridden of NATURAL DISASTER in a Court of Bore have been certificatively incorporated under the auspices of 21st century PRENUPTIALISATION. As follows, vizmagazine:

Hencegoingforward and moreoverfurthermore they will now therefore be considered an M&A, a 100% united future airlines, legally aligned entity following procedure 27 b/6 (Room 101). Said unition is effective as of today. The followpursuant diagram provides a full chimera of their compatibilities, liabilities and assets usward each other, each other’s others, each other’s other’s others and each other the other of the other’s other. In the case of a unipara there may be an unreeve of an unction but only in the UNLIKELY case of an undeified unicorn. In the absence of that, there may be an umbratilous ultraism projecting towards an umbilical ultion but the Honourables of AdIdem-Ennomic would like it heretoforth recorded that they are in no sense legally liable or slanderously libellous in that case or, indeed, any other case whatsoever, and that their hands are entirely washed of the matter at hand. Any deviation, hesitation or repetition is an oxymoron and will be treated in the manner of a Mornington Crescent. We cannot possibly comment on our computer’s minority report that their love story will last for nine years and then fall apart like a cardboard box in a lake. CLAUSE (SANTA). In the instance of children and other derivative parental locative codependencies, there is the possibility of an instantaneous f(x) = x². This may later be Phillip Schofield cubed at a cost to be borne by the transactions themselves. We the Honourables will not, repeat not (THRICE NOT, double reef knot), be responsible for the cost of ANY Painlevé transcendents undertaken by any of their descendents. Please notary: this missive cannot be usury for any other porpoises than the ones for which it has been specifically taxidermatologist4. Any attempt to do so will be illegal BY LORE and by PETER LORRE.

Note furthermore: NO bargains will be pleaded using this document. That includes all savings and loanshark crises. All expenses claims must go immediately to the bank of the Honourables and TO NOBODY ELSA.

The arrangement is fully cognisant in all major JudgeJudyJuryJurisADDictions including all major tax haven Visa cards Green Cards and Depardieus. Adieu. We pronounce them woman and strife.
(In tripli-kate). Nemo dat quod non habet (found Nemo, freed Willy). BFN (DLT-Fluff Freeman-Monsieur LaPlage). PBS. IRS. IRIS (Murdoch, alpha-team) x{{su|p=2|b=1}}; &frac34 &prod &beta &ensp &#x22A2 α β γ ƒ ∂ ∫ ∑ ∏ ♠ ♣ ♥ ♦ √ wildcatstrikeout

10. Locus, Parentis.
The next day it was high time, Tristram Turnham-Green-Glorieta and Isla GlorietaTurnham Green decided, to rapdishare their happy shopper with Tristram’s family. Time had obviously accelerated because of the joy that they were four-tetting together and they had basically lost track of it. Clocks were doing a salvador melt. They weren’t sure whether they had now been togathered for two or three days, or possibly even four, but in any event the Meet-the-Flockers was clearly overdue like a library final. They arrived at the homestead early in the morning just as the bits started to torrent. Everything in the Turnham-Green domestic was in more flux than the Danube. Firstly, it was cherry blossom viewing day, which meant that large segments of the local Japanese community had been invited over to soak in the sake. Secondly, Tristram’s parents had recently been successfully gender translocated. His mother had become his father and his father had become his mother with a few added clonespores from a high-end, high-rise, high-frequency gene vendor in Andalusia. They were now in the process of unshelving each other’s wardrobes and dee-eye-whying them into the opposite phalanxes of the bedroom. Their life coaches were also busily hose-trading them through the process of how to adjust from razorchinning to lipsticking and vice versa. It was a flander of molls. Mops were rolling. Even from the tube stop round the corner, the sounds of stubble-crashes on the collar could be heard like a Wonderland pigpepper. “NOT LIKE THAT! TOO STRONG! DON’T OVER-DUCHESS OR YOU’LL BE MY LAST DUCHESS! LIPS, NOT CHIN! CHIN, NOT LIPS! NO, DON’T OULIPO THE ZITS! DON’T PERRYKATY THE CHERRYCHOPSTICKS OR I’LL GIVE YOU A FULL-FORCE PERRY MASON!” (and so forth, etc, und so waiter). Not only all that, but they had also recently expanded the family by bringing in a new Branson lemur called Space Tourist. Space Tourist was living in a small ziggystardust

Note subsidiarism: this is NOT a junk bond and should not be Madoff like one. Neither is it some junk food. It is not a burrow inside a William S. Burroughs and is not a junk in any harbour, fragrant or otherwise. Finally, it is not a Ponzi or a Sun Zi, and neither is it a Henry Winkler Fonzi.

inside the fish tank in the dressing-salon next to the karma chameleon called Keith they had been shepherding for twenty four years. In addition, they had translocationed a small Martian called Carribean Madagascar. It, or rather ET, was now living in a hamster wheel in the laundry annexe to the kitchen, next to the housework droids (H.G.Wells and Fargo) along with the flying car that they had bought online from a technologically optimistic 1960s edition of “Tomorrow's World”. “Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes,” Tristram said as they stood, mary, on the portas. “Iching, kerching!” “Yes! And you won’t believe this megaupload,” said Tristram’s mother who was now called Ex-Father as she ushered them over the hymen. “Joe’s bagged himself a girlfiend.” “Non sequitor!” Tristram hullaballooed. “JOE? A GIRL-FIEND? Is she in a coma or something? “Pravda, hun. Prav, da.” “Moz pizza!” “Haha, well the bigbang sure moves in mysterious ways, Trist.” “Megaparsex.” “Hubble constantinople.” “v = Hod.” “Light ears. You go and get yourself pre-nupped and then suddenly, on the very same day, your younger brother manages to get himself a hormone.” “Biconditional disjunction.” “Binomial function.” “I’ll bell-eve when I see it. He’ll be getting an employment next.” “Doubting Thomas the Tank Engine, Tristopeles.” “How can a leerch-lurker with such a negcred effect on his peer network like Joe stealthstalk himself a scrape swarm?” “Now now, Tristle. Come on, it’s probably a major international religious festival today somewhere on the planet, let’s have some peaceonomy in this kennel district.” “Sorry Ex-F.” “Okey chorale.” “But, really. Joe’s got himself a Florence Nightingale.” “Flow, rinse.” “Even a Nathan like him has barleycorned.” “Jim, jimminy.” “Wonders never crease. Well the last one he had with that non-standard model was a bit of an empty domain. What was her name – I can’t even remember it now.” “Löwenheim–Skolem. And she was very nice, Trist. Don’t be nasty. And she was from a good family too, the Gricean Maxims. We knew them from back in the day. From East Grindingstead, nice family.” “They were real Urban Amishes, though.” “They were. But they were very very nice.” “Sorry Ex-Father. You’re right. I’m being totally linedout. She was nice. For an absense.” “She was Nice in a Cannes, Trist.” “War hole. Condense soup. She was nice for a tournament of shadow puppets. Did she have a brain in her head or was she just pleased to see us?” “You are being horrid, Tristmegistus. Anyway, you’ll never guess what genus of girlfiend this new dollyparting is.” “What what?” Ex-Father drew Tristram and Isla into a US football-style huddlemuddle. She willow-the-whispered. “SHE’S A CELEBRITTAS.”

Reverence. “Get out of township.” “She is.” “No chance.” “Seriously.” “Don’t believe it.” “Honest to John Robinson.” “Rubbish.” “Honest to Joan Robinson.” “Nonsense.” “Honest to Jack Robinson.” “Noway.” “Honest to Robinson Crusoe.” “Fail believe.” “Way.” “Null points.” “Norway.” “o%.” “100%.” “Yonic Sooth.” “Sonic Youth. It’s an epic win. That’s why we’re leveraging all these new lemurs and Martians, because we’ve got a hot new revenue rivulet.” “River Wey to go.” “Her name’s P-EARL. She’s had 4 and a half billion hints at YouTube in China and she’s been signed to a wrecked chord.” “Creation my oases.” “Wonderwalls. She's an utter beebah. The new just in. Comes from Bracknell. Got herself dressed up as a reality television and sang like an angel dust. Did it all in her badroom and got it uploaded like the Primal Scream of James Dean. Boil-in-the-bag Susan.” “No chance operations.” “Alligatoratory. Honest to Merce Cunningham. She’s having a full-on Town Hall Moment.” “Merce sea Merce sea me.” “I know.” “Feldman my mortons.” “I know.” “Christian Werewolffs.” “Exactimundo.” “Wowzers. How on earth did Joe lally her then?” “He just postman patted her straight at her YouChanel.” “Coco’d her just like that?” “That’s it. Coco’d her like a clown.” “Coco-popsicles. He just ubuwebbed her.” “Yes. He opened her cultures.” “Just like that – projected her gutenbergs?” “Yes, he caxtoned her williams.” “By Lady Sovereign.” “Then they met on an ice-skate speed-date and they’ve been doing the do-notdisturbing in Joe’s rhombus ever since. The pair of them have been artists of the floating Genji ever since.” “Parallelogrammarfish. Gurus of Ishi. Kazuo kazoo. Shiki boo.” “Precisely. We’re counting the wongal influx as we speak.” “Wangok. What on birth does she see in him, then?” “Ours is not to reason why. Unless we’re practical Kants.”

“Jee Zeus. Sounds totes a priori and syncretic.” “Yes.” “Categorical imperator.” “Yes.” “So my dear brother Joe isn't just hanging out in his bedroom siphoning up bovril and novril? He's asimoff the allswell? He's jacking in the altrulzin and the substance D and the betaphenethylamine and the snake olive? He's actually doing something real in the realzone?” “Reality.” “Reality?” “Reality.” “What – so he's not just stuck indoors snorkling up his holly-go-lightlies and his happy-go-willoughbees and his Hunter Essence Thompsons in front of gamevids?” “Reality. P:EARL is having quite an effective. Well, we women do improve our menfolk, Trizzles. Look at my influence on Ex-Mother over the years. We raise 'em to a higher state of conscience.” “Flippersfloppers.” “Anyway, I’m not exactly being very hostess bar am I!” hullaballooned Ex-Father. “Totally ignoring Isla over here! What a Lorenz attractive young damselfruit, Tristus! Got a decent celebrityrating, Isla? I did Wikiref you this morning but I couldn’t fisher a red cent under the bed.” “Er…no I’m afraid not, Ex-Father Turnham-Green.” “Please, call me EFTG.” “KO.” “Seriously? No number one hits? No cases of kasem?” “I think I’m like celebrityscore 0.841 or something. Or maybe 0.741 or something.” “Oh dear.” “Er, yes. And it’s declining. I got my new ELO weighting last week and it was down 4 points.” “Not blue sky. Very light orchestration.” “I know.” “Oh.” “And my father has just spent pretty much all his moany on therapy and my trip to Inglaterrible.” “Eau.” “So I haven't really got anything much to bring to the tablas, I'm afraid.” Sigh-lentil. “Ramblas. Inheridances. So we won’t be expecting a fragrance range called Isla to be super-seeded in the next six months or so then?” “Frayed knots.” “And you’re not going to have a ghost-written ¥$£%40 million book deal for your autobiography by the age of 21 then?” “Er…negative. I’m already 27.” “Pontoon pantaloon. Twenty seven.” “Twenty seven.” “Nanex. Twenty seven. So you won’t be making your own celebrity philantropic organisation and buying us an adopted African Angelina and a tropical island this time next year then?” “Um. Like, totes probs not.” “No Lucy Irvine and Oliver Reedpipe for us then, eh?” “Que.” “Well nevermind the valseuses. Nevermind the balls of the holly hocks. We can’t all be celebrichampagnes, I suppose. Somebody's got to be a zero stroke.” “Yah.”

“Welcome to the family, anyway. You’ve very very bean-venue. Miao-miao to you. Beau jollais.” “Thanks, EFTG.” “Even if you are a bit of an ordinary non-celebbritas.” “Thanks.” “Good Will Kommen.” “Thanks.” “And maybe we’ll make you up a nice personal stimulus recovery plan one day.” “Oh that’s great, thanks.” “Re-invent the flat tyre.” “Right.” “Wall Street your street mains.” “Yes, thanks.” “Bose-Einstein your condensations.” “Cool.” “Saké your Goldmans.” “Oh great, yeah, thanks EF. Jagerbombtastic.” “EFTG, please.” “Thanks.” “No wozzals. What a day I've had, you'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit crabstick,” said Ex-Father. “I’ve had a really busy day getting used to the ramificational moods of my upsurged oestrogen and I need to have a quick cormorant in the commorancy. I miss my testosterone toblerone. It’s terribly difficult suddenly being able to have higher levels of oxytocin albeit with the downside of low moods on a regular basis as a result of a connection to lunar cycles and ocean tides and a pervasive gender pay gap that now means I am likely to be earning tens of thousands of panned starlings less than my partner instead of more. It's quite a lot to suffragist actually.” “No problem,” Isla and Tristram tweedled. “No problem” Isla deed. “No problem” Tristram dummed. ♊.

94. High, mart.
“So make yourself at home in our humble little bullpen.” “Thanks.” “It’s not much of a mithras but we do our best.” “It’s very nice,” said Isla. “It's bethel crib. It's ejthribb.” “I'll give you the full taurus in a bit.” “Chorus. Can't wait.” “♉. Oh you’re too kind, deary. It's just a little gemutlick of a heimlich.” “No really, it's as lush as miki.” “Too kind.” “Kith.” “I mean it’s hardly a brilliant joint but we try to flophouse it as best as we can. It’s only a little pan of dorabox. It’s really just a suey chop. Just a little diggings-den. A tiny cubbycribbage. A humble roof-roost. A miniature shanty lean-to. Nothing much. Just a layout co-op mansion. A little funky porcini sty. A little gingham style. An Abode pdf.” “It’s very nice,” Isla reiterated. “It's a real Katastrophenhausse.” “Les Mises! Way to Hugo! Oh, I like you already Isla, despite your lower quartile celebrity score. We can’t all be Bell Hooks on the curve, can we? Come through to the lounge. I’ll bring drinks.” “Greatitude.”

“Beatitude. And I'll bring some chips and dips. You and Tristy must be ever so hunger artist after your registry office with the lawyers.” “Diploma.” “Time for some incredible edibles.” “Yahzook.” “Cup of kafka?” “Kaftan.” “Gotta feed you both up after that prenup.” “Sup.” “Where are you going to have the honeymoon?” “In a shopping arcadia.” “How wonderful. How Water Benjamin. How Philip Sid-Knee.” “Parse tree.” “Don't forget to wear your eclogues.” “Georgic.” “Well I'm glad my little Trist is no longer a singlet and a 結婚できない男. Take good care of peach other.” “We dare.” “Hopefully you'll be permanent permafrost.” “Hope springs sandoval.” “Hope it's fifty upanisheds of earl grey.” “Fingers crossbeamed. We're moving into gether next week. To a little Ernő in Picnic Hampstead.” “Goldfingers. Oh well we've have to viz it.” “Absolutismo.” “And remember – tropical island and 500 quadrilion YouTube hits by this time next year or you’re the black sheep of the family and you’ll be packaged off into ex-isle. You've got P:EARL to compete with now for my affections, honeymonster! I'll be putting your name into Gogol Trends on a daily anabasis!” “Lolfish!” “Just goatkidding!” “Panpipes!” “Nieztschean Dionysian!” “Epi cures!” “♑!” “∞.” “Ramen.” They all mirthed like the caricachored laughter of cartoon characters at the finalto of a she-ra. Or like a monkfish at the end of a 公案. End, so. (Happend). ‫ .سعادة‬円相. Post-Scriptunix. Below is a map of Tristram and Isla's happiness-scores prior to this story (on the left) and after the end of it (on the right):

[Illustration: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Examples_of_how_to_calculate_the_value_of_Mayan_n umerals.gif]

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