Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy vs Mrs. Grue
He stood flipping through the notebook, tilting his head to examine each page in the slatted light. Tedious stuff, Bentham and Mill and Chernyshevsky all over again, he couldn't help but yawn. He did let out a hoot when he read Becton's description of rational egoists plopping into sewers. Harvey also eyed a note Becton made in another margin: "Scientology: 'Objectivism' for Non-Randists?" Minds will decide, Harvey surmised.
Watching the watched watchdogs watch the watching watchers watch the watched watching watchers was wild! (If your periscope went on the blink, details would escape detection.) The Mad Hatter wept into an available porcelain sugarbowl, Alice watched the iron pot almost come to a boil for hours and hours. Refugees in a sputtering day-glo bus paused to ask if any pookah with a hookah could be located locally. The Mad Hatter paused lachrymosely to direct them to a narrative farther down the shelf.
Mrs. Bleen had saved the hour and the very moment from every intrusion, from every interruption, they would wed apart from every distraction. Every blind had been closed, the doorbell had been disconnected, the telephone was unplugged. She now pulled the refrigerator door open slowly to behold the jello in its stainless surgical steel bowl, shivering and quivering like a bowlful of cold brain: thus did romance blossom in an unlikely place.
"Whatever could your name be?" Mrs. Bleen had to ask. She said this over and over until the words stole from her mouth almost like a soft purr, she vocalized her curiosity into a pale mist before the open refrigerator. "Sten? Or Glan?" She hesitated, puzzled, her resolve cut clear in half.
The jello muttered from the surgical stainless steel bowl. "Sten . . . or Glan." The jello then coughed from the bowl, something atop his throat at the base of the bowl.
"You're so—fresh!" Mrs. Bleen exclaimed, the open refrigerator was making her arms tingle, she was so excited she almost dropped the bowl. "Oh bliss bliss bliss . . ." her voice trailed off as she clasped the steel bowl to her belly and walked softly from the refrigerator. She pulled the sweaty bowl higher to her breasts, all that heat radiating into her as she glided to the bathroom.
Had it posed no actual hardship for breathing, Mrs. Bleen would have dropped her nose into his lime essence. He was so warm, she'd left him in the fridge for no more than two minutes! —But Mrs. Bleen was not deterred: she wanted her Glan hot! She set his bowl on the bathroom countertop to scrape every piece of his dried green goo from the rim of his hot steel bowl and toss the green shavings onto his brain shivering in its bowl, then she turned on her naked heels to start the hot shower.
Scant minutes passed before the bathroom was huffing a single cloud of steam from the shower. Mrs. Bleen was busily enumerating all regrets that come legitimately of the inability of the human organism to abide temperatures of over three hundred degrees Fahrenheit. While the steam built in the shower, Mrs. Bleen strolled nude through her house to find the temperature gauge on the water heater and adjust the setting for one hundred forty degrees F.
"Hold on, Glan!" she shrieked from the water heater, in the moments it took her to return to the bathroom Glan had grown almost confused, but his demeanor snapped back once he sensed the steam rising from the shower. "Hot time in the old town tonight!" he hummed, whistling was entirely beyond him. Mrs. Bleen swept right by him and scooped him up in his bowl in one arm while with the other she parted the shower curtain to enter the rising column of steam.
The hot shower spray gnawed into Mrs. Bleen's shoulders and spine, the steam and the water carrying it flowed down her back and down as she rotated Glan in his bowl, sloshing him round and round in his bowl until he was dripping over her chest. The heat from the shower and the heat from the stainless steel bowl were setting Mrs. Bleen aflame. "All over me, you wonderful gelatinous creature, you!" Mrs. Bleen sloshed Glan liberally from the bowl, he cascaded down in a slow thick drool over her chest, tasting her hunger as he visited her with his own desire to please.
From behind the shower curtain and from within the column of steam it veiled, the rising intensity of Mrs. Bleen's ardor and Glan's resolve could briefly be discerned. (A tender and private scene, you'd've had to've been there, which I was not.)
"Oh yeah?" Mrs. Bleen sniffed as she exhaled cigarette smoke through her nostrils forcefully. "Well, some say you're just a riddle of induction, and others say induction doesn't even exist!" But of course, gelatinous Glan was not listening: a bubbling drool had lifted to his lips and was just now escaping from the corners of his mouth.
strannikov resides at the end of a road to avert the hidden gaze of gawkers and passers-by examining surrounding swamps thriving under their oak and pine canopy with their grinning alligators frolicking, their twitch-tailed furry tree rodents cavorting with and without pestilential ticks, snakes writhing next to everywhere and frogs squatting everywhere else, humming buzzing cicadas performing several times a day, fed mosquitos by pound and ton, lots and lots of mud after plentiful rain (these hungry swamps can eat draglines and bulldozers and commonly do), and Spanish moss de rigueur and post bellum. Deer swarm in November, but not even butterflies linger here. The moon here does not exactly sneer, but the skepticism emerging from the Mare Imbrium and the Mare Nubium is proportionate and unmistakable, respectively.