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The Essay
Show #83
The Folly of Accounting
David Gunn
  •     Jade mantra puppets hygienically festooned in clodian backspores negate thousands of brackish pimpernel.
  •     Ancillary convolutions anchor wrathnodes of perplexing concatenation and heckle the changing of the hat.
  •     Monogenetic iceboats from Homerís vicinage, above which ramparts last longer than kindling, attempt spoor dances in realms of unmitigated hoot.
  •     Infusing a deficit amalgamation with a bartered hula postludium begets plumage.
  •     Tyrolean spontoon enthusiasm whets intermittently mounted maverick furculae and hoot.
  •     Blaire furtively pictures shimmering winnows in millinery funnel regeneration units.
  •     Trousers grewsome, antimacassar dimpled, Fatima glibly plies her finest clownery, unknowingly beset by modern contrivances of the nonassessable.
  •     Modulus subjectivism vamooses at the second sign of angular homing pawnkindlers.
  •     Affricative cavitation ordinance #21 allows excessive freight charges on hominids from space.
  •     The question was calculated yet murderous: do vectored goat feints penalize long noses just because runcible zipper hoppers easily ignite under a kind of sporadic xenomorph?

    Ten inherently pluperfect phrases, patently dissimilar in content, yet heartily akin in their relevance to at least one and perhaps six facets of todayís sesquisolstice celebration, which even now is preparing to enter its final phase, the Folly of Accounting.

    Accountants, profitably versed in the language of numerical gibberish, account for 40% of warranted contempt in the world today. Long held in high opprobrium and low regard among humans with at least one-sixth of their brains in working order, these cipher leeches seem to relish wallowing in the interplay of fiscal year transaction encumbrances and vendor-voucher invoice codes, disgracing the very ink-stained stay-press shirts their pocket protectors were supposed to safeguard. And they blame it all on The Economy!

    Now this is not to say that I have anything at all against my fellow wage earners -- notwithstanding their propensity towards utter moral turpitude and mouth and gum odor that would knock out a cow -- and I learned early on in life that if you canít say anything good about somebody ... then make something up.

    But meanwhile, back to those potentially pluperfect phrases. The commonality which each of those 145 words shares can best be illustrated by the anthropomorphic effect a í69 Airstream trailer sitting idly in an Oklahoma shopping mall parking lot during a steamy summer evening has on the solstice. Note the soft blue hum in the air, the crackle of peat gnawed by the goat, the deception of the forest template, the astigmatism of le flambeau oriange. In the upper rear bunk of the trailer, where an uncertified accountant had been fitfully dreaming of line items, an Algonquin Hole has just materialized. The bookkeeper and the end of this story shall never be heard from again. Is there a moral?

    No. There is only the rest of episode 83 of Kalvos & Damianís New Music Bazaar, this portion of which is, as quickly as I speak, disappearing into that very Algonquin Hole, also never again to be heard, notwithstanding the DAT recording in stereo which we are even now making. What can be made of this? Who better to ask, especially to establish that heís been paying attention, as I, truth be told, have not, than Kalvos!