Pants:  A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  and Beyond

post purpose

the purpose of this post is to begin the task of distributing the
chronicles of my invention of thinking to selected locations upon the
nut.

overview

in 1812 i invented thinking. it was a grand notion, warranting some
sort of parade, but there were distractions at the time. i recall
having some problems with my pants that year, as you would imagine the
details are a bit hazy. in any case napolean had recently shot his
load trying to come to grips with "the calculus" and wasnt about to
entertain an exotic new theory such as "thinking". he even accused me
of devising the whole thing as an elaborate scheme to get into his
duds. yes, indeed, there were hot pants flying all over the empire
that year.

stimulus

i invented thinking, initially, in response to being confronted with
the most heinous of all possible analytical problems. this problem,
which we shall call the "pant-rowboat-cheese-infinity conundrum" had
baffled mathematicians, philosophers and dogs for millennia. stated in
its most unambiguous form the problem is: "how do i get from rowboat A
in pant A with cheese A, to rowboat B in pant A or B with cheese A,
and finally arrive at rowboat C in pant B with cheese B, keeping in
mind that some of the aforementioned rowboats and cheeses may in fact
be of type non-rowboat and non-cheese respectively (the pants however
were not of type non-pant)?"
i first struck the conundrum on new years eve of 1811/1812 whilst out
with bonaparte, raping and pillaging some local villages which we had
rezoned as "spanish". it was so distressing that i vowed to spend 1812
unraveling it - i would defeat this shiny, slippery, magnificent snake
of a conundrum. i told napolean this as we rowed gently up the seine,
exotic cheeses moving from hand to mouth and shiny, slippery,
magnificent snakes running rampant all over the shop. he looked at me
like i was quaint.

review

in previous pants we have learnt that my invention of thinking was
sparked on new years eve 1811/1812 by being confronted with that most
heinous of analytical problems: the pant-rowboat-cheese-infinity
conundrum. we also gather that swept up in this whole affair was my
compatriot napolean boneparte and our shared love of unconscionable
pastimes.


the rowboat

the seine lay flat, sullen and slutty this evening, wobbling just
imperceptibly with grave intentions. 1811 was an old fish flipping
pointlessly in a bucket and the darkness was tanked up on a whole new
year. crackers, crackerjacks, snapping, flashing and "spanish"
villages burning into the night all flicked about in the seine, in the
scene. 

our little boat was no swish affair for, as was our slant, we were
incognito, of a sort. we were in rowboat B, a wooden tub, with some
wooden sticks to aid in propagation. she lapped about in a vaguely
unsettling way and snorted occasionally with distrust, but gave us a
queer and sexual standpoint from which to view our handiwork.

intermittently boneparte would offer me a slab of cheese A, which he
maintained on a silver platter shaped like himself. we were both
deeply committed cheese connoisseurs and consumed cheese A in bulk -
this night we would eat until violently ill. "cheese?", he would say,
his sleazy, rhetorical eyes wheezing at me with mock inquiry. he knew
that i was aesthetically obliged to eat the cheese.

we had boarded rowboat A, for sure, each adorned in pant A, and
although there had been ongoing pant problems all evening, i was
almost certain that they were still around there somewhere. in any
case, without loss of generality, we can that we were in rowboat A in
pant A with cheese A. and boneparte was still looking at me like i was
quaint.

in previous pants... 

despite some confusion on the matter, ostensibly with pants, more
assuredly with rowboats, and most certainly with proofreading,
boneparte and myself are in rowboat B, eating cheese A, in pants most
probably of type A. it is new years eve 1811/1812 and we are admiring
the handiwork of a hard evenings stupidity.


the handiwork

we were betting for slabs of sculptured cheese as to whether screams
coming from the sluggy surrounds of the seine were of raucous new
years eve celebration or of people being incinerated. napoleon was
crafting the cheese prizes to look like the penises of great leaders,
mainly his own.

one particular site had us stumped, it was going right off with
explosions, bodies flying through the air, high piercing shrieks that
detached skulls from caps and fireworks that was much the same as all
fireworks going backwards and forwards through the ages. boneparte
swore it was a "spanish" village he had rezoned earlier in the day and
where he had unleashed his famous "mystical nibbler", however i was
sure that we had been in spain at the time, at an inquiry into the
spontaneous appearance of innumerable outlying spanish provinces.

we had rowed in close to the shore in an effort to make a decision on
this perplexing matter, boneparte was getting rowdy and threatening to
unleash the mystical nibbler on me and i was having disarming
hallucinations about the erect cheese i held in my hand. we were
getting so close to the shore we could almost smell burning nasal
hair, but we were still no closer to a solution, when out of a talking
shrub sprang a dark and gangly question-mark shaped figure. it was all
swivel and swerve, dart and spring, flitting about with highly
questionable motives. it seemed to be motioning to a group of
compatriots that didnt exist. it paused briefly in the light reflected
from a flying fishes eye... and there we recognized it immediately...
it was our old friend... the whoop whoop bird!

in previous pants... 

bonaparte and myself are in rowboat B, eating cheese A, in pants most
probably of type A. we have rowed up the shores of the river seine
sniffing for exploding "spaniards". instead we have struck the whoop
whoop bird, brain glazed over with self-mockery, spindly legs tap
dancing out from under a bush, quixotically trapped in the love
reflected from a floating mans eye.


the whoop whoop bird

we first struck the whoop whoop bird on a propaganda tour of some
hokey peasant satellite villages in the mid 90s. there we were,
bonaparte testing his childish notions of imperialism, me totally
nutted on some sort of incandescent gas and a traveling horde of
modularized whores all wobbling to the newest obscene dance tune from
the oily streets of vienna. 

i had been making a series of increasingly intense and abstract
speeches to the townsfolk, largely concerning certain nebular
hypotheses that i had under development, while bonaparte had been
pouncing about nude upon their rooftops. during one of these
performances i was spinning myself into a frenzy of rotation to make a
point, with bonaparte whipping wildly in the wind in one eye, when we
were both slapped down and gutted on the spot by the most quirksome
"noise" of the 18th century.

slipping my head back on i looked over to bonaparte who stood
snap-frozen and rock hard upon his thatched hut. he was staring across
the village square - from where the noise struck out again: "whoop
whoop whoop whoop whoop! whoop! whoop!". high pitched. maddening. mad.
blistered. hard core, full rank insanity. "what the devil is that?" i
said staring at the lone figure, which was floating above the local
tavern and questioning me with its gangly form. "the whoop whoop
bird", the locals mumbled in desultory unison. we both knew that we
had to unleash this revolutionary artist upon the throbbing nob of gai
gai paris.

in previous pants... 

as though in some sort of completely pointless revery bonaparte and
myself have come across the whoop whoop bird while in our scene in the
mid 1790s. and we have decided that to import this evolutionary
performer to the slickening streets of heady paris.


paris

we rolled into paris wearing chandeliers and demonstrating radical new
stride patterns. i carried three umbrellas and wore a totally new hat
that i had dubbed the stovepipe. bonaparte was more succinct than ever
sporting an extravagant flared codpiece - the little digger. it wasnt
little but there was little question as to its capacity for digging.
the whoop whoop bird was, well "whoop whoop whoop whoop whoop! whoop!
whoop!"

the first stop was "le gai nob", an inner city slum that bonaparte had
had converted into an inner city venue for artistes and interpreters
of the esoteric. the transformation had been seamless as most of the
resident hoboes were already fully conversant with the core notions of
high art. and those who couldnt cut it got used as canvas. the main
change involved the introduction of dozens of cafes... and also the
supplying of each hobo with a tophat, pipe and monocle.

we had seated ourselves in our favorite jaunt "the sheer humdrum", and
were both leaning back with flutes of the fluid of the day and mocking
the common plod, the causally linked muckraking folk, slinking by as
they did in their festively woven heads. i was becoming overrun with
hoboes, increasingly obsessed with my remarkable new form of headwear,
when, fortuitously, the whoop whoop bird made his astonishing paris
debut.

he flew! somehow, everyone who was there swore they saw it, he flew
by, in the air, a question mark shaped figure making his impassioned
plea for freedom, glory and a common sense approach to the treatment
of the insane: "whoop whoop whoop whoop whoop! whoop! whoop!"

in previous pants... 

in a completely pointless revery rudely inserted within the main story
bonaparte and myself have imported the whoop whoop bird to the slicked
back streets of mid 1790s paris. the question mark shaped gentlebird
in question has surprised and fandangled everyone by demonstrating its
capacity for flight. 

flight

"but then", napolean mused, "he is a whoop whoop *bird*". "yes," i
mused, amused, "i suppose he is". the resident hobo artistes remained
bemused. "whoop whoop whoop whoop whoop! whoop! whop!!!" the bird had
floated off course and struck a wall. the wall had given its standard
reply in such circumstances - hit back a hundred times harder! i
conceded the direction of the reply to the puerile english dog but the
inequality of it could surely be measured by the spasming of the
punctuational figure in the dirt at the walls base.

as i watched the idiot bird run into that wall repeatedly over the
course of the evening i fused the developmental observation that,not
only had we uncovered a critical flaw in the makeup of this critically
flawed suprabird, but i could also see that it was landing on the
ground in patterns that were, while centralized on a particular point,
also varying in a way that had worn a ditch into the earth that was,
well... bell-shaped. i commented on this fact to bonaparte: "the bird
is digging a bell with its brain dead antics"

napolean was preoccupied however by his need to maintain a
continuously lubricated codpiece. i made a mental note on my personal
headheld hand, through association with a particular formation of
fingers, that i would pass this interesting observation onto my german
acquaintance "kfg".

"oh, the sheer humdrum!" pronounced bonaparte suddenly, reconstructing
himself. "lets blow this ho-hum inner-city slum for artistes and
interpreters of the esoteric - im hankering for a taste of hot shiny
spanish butt-ock!

in previous pants... 

growing tired of the whoop whoop birds incessant and elaborate party
tricks and subtle metaphorical elegance, bonaparte and myself have
taken to the tongue to lick some rubbery spanish butt, me slightly
preoccupied by a sequence of arcane and noiseless bells inside my
head.


bells

that night there were bells everywhere. drinks were spilt in bells,
cheese was thrown into the air and landed in bells, rubber butts
looked like bells, bonapartes pants fell to the floor in bells. i
played games of chance with ass traders and took random walks through
the courtyards of spaniards that had had all their concepts rezoned.
but i could not escape the bells.

and yet i couldnt piece it together either. those slippery, shapely
bells were most appropriately punctuated by the shape of the gangly
form of the whoop whoop bird. in any case they did not ring, did not
ring anything but a bell, those ubiquitous, self-similar, silent
curvaceous bell-bottomed beauties...

bonaparte was, naturally enough, more concerned with refining his
flapping codpiece technique, blissfully unaware of the complex forces
swinging all around him. its like something was pulling on limp levers
to make preposterous patterns out of unpredictable and utterly sordid
events. or napolean had slipped me some bad snortin weed again.
 
ars conjectandi, the archer, the most probable choice, the archer, bad
snortin weed, de mensura sortis, the limits of observation, imagine an
archer shooting at a target, imagine the archer has many shots,
imagine the limits of observation, the limits of observation, imagine
the shots spread across the target, ars conjectandi, the pattern, the
measurement, the bells, the limits, the doctrine of chances, the
theorem of all bells, the gravity of the center, divine weed, divine
limits, divine snort, the question mark

in previous pants... 

after an orgy of rubbery spanish butt licking, bonaparte slips me some
slick spiked tongue and i become slightly preoccupied by an endless
stream of thought-provoking inanity, while a gay parade of noiseless
bells ring dingalong the thing inside my head. we all slip into comas.

coma

i awoke into a coma, memoirs of my waking life all around... all
manner of pants, expended spanish butt modules, the rotting carcass of
napoleon bonaparte. i sniffed my life and was left choking from the
toxic waste. i rolled over, tumbled off whatever i was on and landed
in some sort of gigantic cheese dip. after struggling for some minutes
i eventually grabbed a biscuit and paddled to the edge of the dip.

i was dreaming about a strange man that was really a carrot living
inside a man when i lapsed blithely into a coma and from within it was
awoken. "mr bonaparte," said somebody. "bonaparte," said somebody. "mr
bonaparte," the realization that i had been talking helped me clarify
matters. "napoleon bonaparte," said somebody. "no," i nibbled on some
pith that was lodged within my mouth, while deciding to harness the
utility of sight, "bonapartes dead... or very very soggy- woah!"

i had bestirred unto an unconsciousness which came complete with the
oddest looking "man" ever made. the man was mostly normal, though
covered in cheese flavored soot, no more than half a man in height and
outfitted in demented rags... but what made him an odd man, just a
little nobbly for a man, was the fact that he had penises for eyes.

"mr bonaparte" dickeye slurred again. getting somewhat frustrated with
the cyclical nature of the mans shtick i rustled up some vigor which i
applied to the following words: "dead, i tell you! not in the land of
the licking. his dicks have closed for the last time." i looked
painfully at the man, hoping for some pitiful form of understanding.
he blinked, somehow, took a stern breath and looked me in the waist,
"the emperor", he said boldly, "who has no pants whatsoever", he
conceded, "is required in paris.. france is at war with egypt!"

in previous pants... 

after awakening in a cheese dip from a coma it somehow becomes
apparent that the evil egyptians have imposed their entombed nastiness
upon the glorious and conceptually upright french empire. napoleon
bonaparte was experimenting with some new loose-fitting reality.


wobbling

i stood scratching some random parts of my nut. i founds some nuts in
my mouth. i picked my mouth up from the floor. i fell over. there was
a whole lot of wobbling in this world. everything was dry, crusty and
wobbling. testy tentacles were all over me. "jibber!", i cried, the
prospect of some squid jigging hiccupping through my mind. but the
tentacles only accelerated their jiggling program... "napoleon is
mighty!" they sniggered. "dead!" i shouted to clear things up. and my
eyes popped open. and my eyes popped.

the emperor reared before me, as spritely as a freshly-evolved amoeba,
licking fantastical lips and effortlessly manipulating what appeared
to be thousands of arms. "the egyptians!" he proclaimed knowingly,
spitting cheese ubiquitously and knowingly, "the egyptians - they walk
the earth!" his eyes went all gummy as he said it but there was no
time to refract on this because i was being hoisted out of my cheesy
quagmire.

i tumbled to my feet and took a moment to stocktake. after confirming
my own probable presence i looked at napoleon. "what are you?" i
decided to ask, for want of a better approach. "its hard to say at
this point," he replied, "we really must be on our way! the egyptians
walk the earth and they do not do it ordinarily!"

with that he picked me up, threw me onto his back and carried me out
of the building. and so we went... me waving goodbye to cheese covered
spanish corpses, napoleon whistling the monotonic symphony in e, both
of us bouncing down the long musty road out of spain... pantless,
pointless, but nicely basted in cheese.

in previous pants... 

napoleon bonaparte carried me along the rubbery road out of spain,
leaving behind a trail of violated buttocks and cheese paste. he
whistled because finally the endless parade of slippery shanks,
self-induced comas and paisley brains had come to an end. we were off
to war with the egyptians!

roadside masturbation

fifty meters up the road i sensed things going awry when napoleons
inspired rendition of the monotonic symphony went from e to d, b##, a,
through the little known key of h and a totally new one that we shall
call qqq, before finally returning to an e that was, while pure,
completely atonal and indescribably annoying. then he fell in a lump
to the ground, me tangled on top.

we lay there for a moment, pondering. then, when i had concluded that
there was in fact nothing to ponder, i rolled off and did some
panting. the panting proved to be more helpful than the pondering to
be sure - after some minutes i was feeling well enough to do a spot of
poking.

i poked bonaparte with each of my fingers in turn, testing for their
effect. bonaparte was dead.

or alive. one way or another i was going to find out with this poking
routine. after a while i noticed that he had begun blowing cheese
balloons and mumbling something akin to "sun duck dog knob..." he
continued, "sun wonky-eye cantaloupe knob knob microprocessor" i stood
back to have a look at the rabid spasming emperor before me.
"leathery-spaceman prism knob knob knob knob knob", he added.

i took a "toggle break". some hours later napoleon suddenly stood up,
shook himself violently, looked at me mockingly and pronounced:
"enough of this hastily contrived sluggishness! we must away to defeat
the egyptians with their common sense view of death, sophisticated
information storage techniques and visionary suite of walks."

Toggle breaks are only for sissies.  Toggle breaks don't
allow for profundity in their very nature of offnes and on-
againness.  Violated buttocks and pasty cheese are not for
polite company.  Shame on you. And you've taken the name of
the emporer in vain.  Who permits this?  Where do you get
off?  Poking Napolean--or was it the lower-cased generic--
is the endeavor of a licentious lover. What is your sex,
you who poke the emporer?  What the timbre of the
fluteishness that you exhale as stale exhaust? Why do you
rant so.  Or is an incantation of sorts. This reply seeks
the rationale of your prosaic presentations to the world.
Again, where do you get off Napolean?

in previous pants... 

the french legion collect napoleon and i from the cheesy road leading
out of spain and we set off on our way to touch up some skintight
egyptians with oversized erectiles. some horns blow.

funky horn blow deep on low down sea

we pulled up to the port de bordeaux, some parts of our mystical road
trip out of spain missing, to be made up more glamorously later. the
monotonic symphony sounded out, french horns being blown sure and true
- for the emperor had arrived.
alighting with our entourage dancing mutely and sternly around us, we
moved forward like a special golden multihuman. oh, the nude dead
emperor of spain was planets away as napoleon transformed into a great
french warrior, utterly panted for the occasion and striding like a
pair of europes finest. decorative robes flowed. in a procession, we
mounted the finest tub in all of france: "les vive rodger".

after some elaborate machinations napoleon took his position on the
upper deck, striking a serene, sinister and coiled like a supersnake
pose. on the deck below an array of frances frilliest fighting men
stood airily but stiff. expectation hung haughty over the ship and
down onto the shore, where milling was afoot, and out on the water
where boats bobbled and dibbled, guns pointing. musky odors sang in
the very atmosphere, thick and rank, the meat of the anticipation of
death and the sweat from the pores of the killed. the wind blew and
stood still in waves, the water slurped gently, the sun glowed
coweringly and napoleon bonaparte stood at the center of it all,
tickling his hip in a motion that no one could notice.

he stepped forward. his lips quivered. his hand motioned. a snap of
silence. "ahem," napoleon smiled or grimaced briefly, then began:
"diode!" he called emphatically, "sun eye llama particle accelerator,"
a momentary pause for rhetorical confirmation, "knob cold fusion
dingdong gigantic rubber dog."

and so in a blaze of bewilderment began our egyptian sojourn.

in previous pants... 

napolean is dragged out of spain by his cheesy entrails to lead the
french in brutal and sniggering war against the egyptians. unbeknownst
to the french navy something in the great emperors brain had been
toggled back in spain and he was now speaking and acting in peculiar
tongues.

water trip

the journey to egypt was delightfully horrible. napolean persisted
with ever more abstract antics, such as daily semen collections,
sailing the boat sideways and enforcing the use of his new language
amongst the hapless french mariners.

les vive rodger was starting to tilt badly because napolean was
experimenting with stacking things to the larboard as part of his
sideways sailing program. at one point there were some sinister
looking squid swimming about on the main deck.

i called an urgent meeting with bonaparte. we needed to work out what
we were going to do when we actually arrived in egypt.

"the egyptians are tricky napolean, they have these crazy walks that
they confuse you with and gigantic dog sculptures that they hide
behind."
he looked at me quizzically. "gigantic dog?" he inquired, with seeming
sincerity, "oblong cylinder, space capsule, electromagnetic
transmission," he completed and leaned back with satisfaction.
i sighed, adjusted my robe, and looked deep into his eye with my
eye... "no one knows what you are talking about emperor. it is because
you have gone mad. you are sending us all to a certain and certainly
unpleasant death. do you understand me?"
"cantaloupe?"
i sighed, adjusted my robe, and grabbed him by the throat,
grimacing... "eagle, um, no, french eagle, er... exploded head, hmmm,
egyptian fancypants... you get me!" he took the rag doll position as i
shook him to within a spiceshaker of his life.

after i calmed down i looked at him closely and all i saw was sweet,
innocent, puppy dog madness... and i knew what i had to do... covertly
take over the reigns of this lunatic egyptian massacre operation.

in previous pants... 

napoleon bonaparte has been consumed by the forces of ambivalence on
the long watery trip to play dastardly games with sanctimoniously
walking egyptians. i am forced to take steps.

trip water

"firstly," i said, sternly, "weve got to stop sailing sideways." 
the table of french naval leaders looked unconvinced, "but the emperor
assured us that this was crucial-"
"the empower is sick, mad or very, very stupid." he was also flipped
tummy-up on some psycho-noddy pills which i had slipped into his
urine. "and in his sickness, madness or stupidity, before he bumped
his head on a head-bumping stick and went off to sloppyland, he
confided in me that he wasnt entirely sure where we were going, who we
were or what the wet stuff all around us was."
at this point the men began tussling with their facial hair, thoughts
of facial hair and how to grow it long and bushy whistling through
their minds. i knew they were mine for the stroking.

and so i took command of les vive rodger and, with the rest of the
french fleet tagging along, we put the semen cannisters and squid
carcasses in cold store and pointed directly at that desertous bitch
of entirely practical ceremoniousness and idiotically big dogs -
egypt!

things went along slappingly well on the remainder of the trip with
only 6 of our ships running into each other, 5 spontaneously
dissolving, 3 being hijacked by grimacing porpoises and one
mysteriously turning into a solid gold rabbit - which didnt float,
unfortunately.

finally though, the ponced out desert sculptures of egypt reared into
view... and those frilly walkers would have been wise to have been
adjusting their pants right then, because i had devised an
unimaginably ingenious plan to completely depant their oh so dandy
civilization...

in previous pants... 

with napoleon bonaparte safely locked away in a trunk full of musty
pantaloons, i took over the helm of les vive rodger and guided the
sultry hussy up to the shores of histories greatest and most
folly-ridden civilization: egypt. 

the great depanting begins

it was night in egypt as we pulled up to it. i had figured that if we
were reflecting less light we would be harder to see - it took a while
to explain this to the men, but eventually they conceded my point.

we unloaded our deathly cargo in a trancelike silence, twinkles not
reflecting in our dilated eyes. an eery mood of fatalism had gripped
us, for we were the french, and we were about to do irreversible
damage to the egyptian dream of covering the planet with oversized
humanoid dogs.

for the first half of the night we marched on, hauling our deadly,
relatively smelly, cargo up the shore, through some river, across a
forest and along a tunnel. we got lost in the tunnel, not realizing it
was really a funnel, but eventually it spat us out on a plateau, right
near an egyptian outcrop that was requiring desecration.

the second half of the night was spent unloading and preparing our
intricate attack. some complained of the smell, some complained of the
stickiness, some complained of their imminent death. i stalked
throughout the camp, reminding people that what was about to transpire
was not just a spot of overdue extermination, but revolutionary
martial art.

eventually dawn broke at our little egyptian boot camp and
unsuspecting egyptians began goosestepping out of beds, adjusting
pants, taking pants off and stepping out into the goose of the day.
imagine their bewilderment to be confronted at their gates with
hundreds upon hundreds of mobile squid, all jiggling in deadly
anticipation, each packing a monstrous sperm cannon...