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[[TOC]] [[Page 166]] [[Page 168]] self with an elusive Antonius, a wop who would appear to hug a personal interest in refined chees of all chades at the same time as he wags an antomine art of being rude like the boor. This Antonius-Burrus-Caseous grouptriad may be said to equate the <I>qualis</I> equivalent with the older socalled <I>talis</I> on<I> talis</I> one just as quantly as in the hyperchemical economantarchy the tan- tum ergons irruminate the quantum urge so that eggs is to whey as whay is to zeed like your golfchild's abe boob caddy. And this is why [[any simple philadolphus of a fool]] you like to dress, an athemisthued lowtownian, exlegged phatrisight, may be awfully green to one side of him and fruitfully blue on the other which will not screen him however from appealing to my gropesarch- ing eyes, through the strongholes of my acropoll, as a boosted blasted bleating blatant bloaten blasphorus blesphorous idiot who kennot tail a bomb from a painapple when he steals one and wannot psing his psalmen with the cong in our gregational pompoms with the canting crew. No! Topsman to your Tarpeia! This thing, Mister Abby, is nefand. (And, taking off soutstuffs and alkalike matters, I hope we can kill time to reach the salt because there's some forceglass neutric assets bittering in the soldpewter for you to plump your pottage in). The thundering legion has stormed Olymp that it end. Twelve tabular times till now have I edicted it. Merus Genius to Careous Caseous! <I>Moriture, te salutat!</I> My phemous themis race is run, so let Demoncracy take the highmost! (Abra- ham Tripier. Those old diligences are quite out of date. Read next answer). I'll beat you so lon. (Bigtempered. Why not take direct action. See previous reply). My unchanging Word is sacred. The word is my Wife, to exponse and expound, to vend and to velnerate, and may the curlews crown our nuptias! Till Breath us depart! Wamen. Beware would you change with my years. Be as young as your grandmother! The ring man in the rong shop but the rite words by the rote order! <I>Ubi lingua nuncupassit, ibi</I> <I>fas! Adversus hostem semper sac!</I> She that will not feel my ful- moon let her peel to thee as the hoyden and the impudent! That mon that hoth no moses in his sole nor is not awed by conquists

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