The eating of mock-chicken, 85% beef bolognas, and mock-bologna, for that matter, is strictly forbidden. Liver worst and kidney is fine, but must be boiled at a temperature not in excess of 200% centigrade or below that of a stern simmer or roil, depending on whether you are using a convex-oven or a hotplate. She complained that you smell of boiled scald-clothe and rabies. I said you were lycanthropic and smelled of no such thing. I said she’d said enough; she that I had said too much yet said nothing at all, nothing at least of importance, not yet at least. She had the faint ardour of sackcloth, like that worn by roustabouts and roughnecks. I smelt dimly of celery-root, a bunghole bung tamped into place with a cooper’s hammer, the very same one I use to recant so forth fare well knar-do-whale. In the ego lies the Lego-logos, that place where nothing much happens, and if it did, no one would give a rat’s ass that it did. He, this fellow who is I, writes from within the Lego-logos, constructing and reconstructing blither and blather and dither, a sty-pen of mad-cattery and fenland fen, all this spoil and rot, wither come or not, it’s all a bunch of hooey. I knew a guy in high school named Cedric Van Mahooey, he has probably gone onto greater things than I, scald-cloth and rabies and cooper’s mallet held at the ready, for tamping and bunging and for relieving the stench of sackcloth and onions, skins left on.
