A Hogshead of Real Fire

Slip in quietly, little Muck Muck, for the jewels of the phantom can only be disturbed by the squeals of the Mogwai. From the sequel of “The Time Machine,” which through its own temporal-folding premise came out before “The Time Machine” itself and before H.G. Wells was born but after Orson Welles shilled the wine and peas. WE know of a little hamlet where Oscar Meyer, Orson Bean, the Olsen Twins and Meyer Lansky dwell, and the backgammon is finer than a warm dollop of Muamba Nsusu.

Don’t give me that goody goody fish shiite; tabernacle tambourine tourmaline toasted cracker fraud nebbish rubbish and I’M GOING TO SAY THIS NOW, that a lot of the people and that’s including FroogBurgers are beginning to PISS ME OFF so you need to STOP THOSE THOUGHTS that get down and kiss the ground and hope one of us has the GUTS to step through this infinite transom and BREAK US OUT OF HERE. I’m not a beggar and I’m not about to break ranks with the limbo cognoscenti but I’m really close to undoing it here. Forewarned.

A rarified earth part three—dish it if you must, but accuracy in the Akashic system relies on rail schedules with less than 5% error and real television listings from the revivified TV Guide. There needs to be a system, man. Keri Russell as Eve. Antonio Banderas as Dali. Jack Black as Gulliver. They, you, me, we, te, must know that even with a revised daylight savings time schematic we are not to be ignored. Surreptitious so delicious meretricious dirty dishes.