Ah, the Norman Wisdom teeth of the wandering minstrel.
Today, I learned that there be an infinte amout of numbers. None of which exist.
Apart from a single, all emcompassing numeric. And that's the number 1.
And that solitary number van mean anything. In particular, your sexuality.
It also means that you can impregnate yourself via your bum to give birth to a sprout (of the wily veg variety).
And due to the existential nature of this number 1, you can be locked in a Möbius continuum, whereby your flatulence is repeated in a never ending cycle. Each blast emitting a new sprout with a simple 'pop', rather than the usual trumpety cacophony.
I was invited to contribute my theorems to the nature of the impact of cranial forestry upon the fictional and factual output of scribes, both modern & in days gone by.
I disavowed myself of such illectual discussion, in favour of blogging on it at a later date.
Along with clearly significant part drop off that not only has no impact, but it's origin cannot be traced.
So, beware of bicycling bisexual prophets in Arcades bewailing their intelligble accent...
