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Professor Pille's Planetary Panopticon

Currently under advisement and endless reconstruction. Perhaps confusing yet amusing. A highly vulnerable manifestation of the internationally-regarded Mt. Palomine Institute of Mysteries and its founder, the venerable Professor Antonio Pille. Dedicated with warmest regards to the varied ghosts of Aristophanes, Rabelais, Swift, Sterne, Jarry, Mencken, Baron Munchhausen, and the gentle and honorable Robert Benchley.

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Location: Portville, Narragansett National District

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Beswept by Turbifying Exhaustions and Penumbrances, yet Jollymaking Nonetheless!

This Pille and Yours to take Two of if Headached--I am
Yet another passage of a full-blown Jahre draws nigh upon the ever-tumbling yet kissable Gesicht of lustrous Erde; Santariamas is a mere spluttering sweep of sign-languaging hands ahead of us, and Old Nick--cloudward-lofted in his Saucy Rhine Maiden-hauled tobagganary (On Lapdancer! On Vixen!...etcetera)--will be "strafing" the countryside (and accessible urbanized districts sans festive barrage balloons) with glacines of cheer and cartons of gaily tied rope. Tis in the seasoning, as the les jongleurs du Albion oft maintain twixt sips. Meanwhile, the gaslights of the Institute have been dimmed for the Howlingday Season interim and our inebriate-cudgeled ratiocinations hover anesthetically atop both the immediate celebrations and the advanced cerebrations of this now nearly voided "Three-sixty-five-er". Head and limbs above all else, the bottommost lauded event would be the uncovery, via a fantastical gizmo that encumbered the Institute coffers by a niggardly (Oh do look it up ye torch-wielding chasers of monsters!) fistful of francs, of the vile dwarfish Echo World we reluctantly dub "Da Urth." Contrasted to the survey and circumambulation of this putrid objectus animositus of achingly diminishing interest, water closet porcelain cleansing and equine post-diarrhettic stable roistering would be gripped tightly (albeit unsanitarily) as galloping Paradise! More on this, and perhaps commentary on the recent critiques of Santariamas greeting traditions by puzzle-headed nincompoops, following some non-stopped quaffing of traditional-ed Santariamas toddlers of bubblymead, and a microtome-thin slice or two of cinnamoned banananomad bread. Jolly Santariamas to Alle! (... and may the new year of 2006 Anno Pilatum see the limitless annihilation of knavery, fooltomishness, and witdimmery both here--where it is not so much necessitated, praise Wotan--and on "Da Urth" where it may soon be an issue of vie vs. mort, as was settled centuries ago by our own Highest Court)

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