A penny dreadfulfor your thoughts. What a dreadful saying, said R after several moments. No more dreadful than your demeanor, said M. I affect not styles, said R, to which M responded, Your detested styles make work for seamstresses and tailors. Busy hands and idle minds, and slipshod to boot, R said, singing their hymns to the least common man, hymn 1024, A mot in one’s ASCII. M: Shh, I’m getting it tuned in. She fiddled with the knobs while ROM burned in a day. Squelch, static, hiss… the Firesign Theatre… zzzz za zz… Feenitches Playhouse… Payroll Jelly… Victoria Stanley — here it is! — hurry please, its time.

I feel like the caved in man with his image club and CPAWS AWACS, blundering down the tunnel of glub, R said as he pulled the rabbit ears out of his hat.

What, lost your transmittance, you knotty pittance, then you shall have no pie are squared, and your generators shall pine till yea on that day when the Bignum and Bailout circuits come on line.