Inutilityindispensibol, guardienne of their statures against public grudge, Encouragent Officiot to the nation, the nation’s cupocake Oogoo [O-wo-go-wo]. ’Twere by a caddastrophicol psychic aspirating that she lapst, out cruising the ethers of an opium trance, when that her supernal strand (which, like unto twine holding steady its kite, secureth her exciting astral opium spirit unto her corporeal shell)—her supernal strand gat tangled in the jet of the devil, and of course she died. That reckless devil, when ever hath he cared whom his ripstream rocketh? And her corpus crackt and was buried, for expire-ed was the life that kept it sprightly. And there now in the medicine parlor of L. Mingo Ross Governorium languisht the Mavens Eight, right flaccid in malaise; for their convixien fizzled, and belief dried up, and a botch lot they were, when Oogoo winkt out.
O! lamented they. In whom now will the people—whom we call buggs—find enticement to cherish this guvment which we conduct? For lovely were those offisial cheeks that beam-ed down upon them all offen her balcony here at Lon Ross, right lovely the voice that caresst them docile unto service. We are a costly crewe to keep, and full of sudden taxes. But the Encouragent alway meeten the kavetching mobs with radiance that blazeth away their bitter air. She saith unto them, How so vext, my fantastics? (For she callen those whom we call bugs, My Fantastics.) Know ye not (saith she) that these formidabol taxes are your best investion in a bosser Mome, wherein ye and your children may rope a dream and tap into the nectar everflow? Yea, your children shall shake their stupors, they shall make up ground upon the showcase children of Maggagitgod and Scramdamalon, those lands turned superb thru unflagging taxatien. And her sweeping smile hangd thick upon each man like as wet kisses in a private room; for the Encurrijent, she was rewarding unto the gaze, and easy to believe. The way she slang the woo—and the Mavens knew it—garnerd more regard for guvment than a poker presst to ev’ry throat in the old tradishin.
And the First Maven, being the Maven Bel Grande, said, Ye godminded, pray gods to send us a cave, upon whose wall we may find chalkt a panoply of precious messages to trigger the respect that all the bum dumplings rightly owe this administrasien. Yea, let all be dazzld by chalkshow into believing that altho she whose tawny hams did habit upon the Encouragent’s bench now lieth stoneybone dead, psyche suckt out and korpis crackt & buried, here yet do gleam & tower like exellent missiles we Mavens Eight—Eight for octayne, when that the natian needen a boost. Let no nullard go believing ruinous polidicol molarkies he hath pluckt outen orbit roundabouts the drunkardry and the flesh depot. Let him in stead digest endorsiments that the gods on our behalf
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have laid upon a cave. Let him look upon pictitures that push a view: Credence These Mavens! And let him Believe.
Oogoo, I warrant (proclaimeth the First Mavin)—were she not now aspirated by Twinhorn Babboo—would ratify this caveplan, for a few divots of palladium, a shingle of gold, a sircumspect dysprosium handoff. That girl love-ed a bribe, now. I knew her, longer than she knewn her self. Yea. E’en ere her very mother’s birth, I didoost the coming of little Oogoo the maiden. This is just how long I knewn her.
DEAR ASPIRATEND OOGOO! (The First Mavon raiseth his hands to heaven.) Most unprize-ed instant when that she war clobberd! She and I, we enjoyd commensurate fames throughout her life. We would meet in the tannery, and I would press her, saying, Whose fame exceedeth: the thine or the mine? And she would make as if to mull, and of sudden would spring at me those balloonar eyes, and she would say, Why Maven, of course mine. And I would run mine hand along her clavicle, and sqwall into her ear, Lady! My fame thricefold exceedeth thine! And we would fall groping in darkness, and raise such percussien that oft in would rush some tanner’s tyro and catch us there flagrante among the squeaking hides. Dear Oogoo, and her portion of fame… and now I have it all. I have it all.
And those others there in the medisin parler at Mingo Ross were inspire-ed, and began to conceive legends concerning them selfs and the Encouragent Officiot; but the First Mavan were not finisht, and he shat them down. And he tare he ope his blouse and smote his breast, wailing, O sweet, Ye advocatrix Oogoo, whose crystol creeks of thought did churn up gleeming treasures worth believing; gentle lubricatrix of the grooves of guvment! By the spatterd clogs of the kick-angel Authoriten, I roll at thee an edict: Rise thou, flow up from thine hidey hole in the turf and drown this infirmry in a flood o grins. Make fresh red the face of the false coronor, proving that he signeth a rogue’s quota of bogus expiry certifigots. Forsooth, I alway said of thee: ’Twere like as tho she packen the high notes of six livings into a singol evening song, that she have all her stanzae done laid to credit if’n Death come punch her numbor, come do her digit. But of course (I alway said of thee), Death hath lost that maid’s number, and knoweth not how to ciphe her up a fresh mess of digits for the doing; she is on a wave that Grimm hath not the hang of riding.
Then sank the First Maven in despair, and flounderd, and stretcht out upon the stones. But nay, saith he. Death needeth not thy number, when he hath thy name, and followeth the scent of thy sandals parkt neath the cot where thou liest pitcht. Alas! The Encourager, the Ameliorator, our Indispensabel Woman hath blown! Who now shall stay these bugs from biting? And the First Maven lapst into a drool.
And those others there sought amongst them selfs, and struck accord, saying, We famus Mavens—whom Oogoo sure admire-ed—in bringing to bear our enormous aggregate intuishin, have establisht an offisial suppositien that there oughts ever flow out over the jills & the jolly-joes of this citizenry a fount of patriodic profunditae, to keep their heads cincht and the natian cranking. But, the pootish mush which we our selfs might drizz out and spread as Truth is nugatory, the dross of our sequesterd station, of the pent lusts and cloisterd doldrums of our drear tenancies here in the Mavenage, and not of any clear & vital panoramum of life’s raw spectacol. (Oogoo, she were neither cloisterd, neither pent nor standoffenish, and her own seamless panoramum shew her the lay
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of the acres and the shifting of the dunes out there.)
How then (said they) may we nabobs here at Mingo Ross hope to peddle our ersatz profunditae unto the messy flesh out there in the land, all the slackojaws & querulous coots & slinking slutts that a citisenry doth comprise? How may we wrap them in a bill of Beliefs that will secure unto us their fervor and plump up our purses? The nonprofunditae which we do conjure is like unto moot clues in a mystorie tale wherein nought washeth, nothing stacketh up. ’Tis things of deep review that we need, conglomerasiens of aphorisma enthralling in the cadence of their recitation, drammadicol maxa of mindswallowing lyric and meaning knewn before the great fat gods. ’Tis that exactily that we need, to expload our predicoment.
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