Wednesday, December 05, 2007

“My friend, where are you coming from, at this hour?”

The student answered him:
“From the spirit-evocative, grandiosely illustrious, manifoldly celebrated academy which one vociferates as Lutetia.”

“What did he just say?” Pantagruel asked one of his companions.

“From Paris,” he answered.

“Ah, so you come from Paris,” Pantagruel continued. “And what do you do all day, you and all the other gentlemanly students in Paris?”

The student answered:
“We transmigrate the Seineian flow, both matutinally and nocturnally. We perambulate the transecting metropolitan arteries and assorted urban intersectional quadrant points. We converse continuously in Latinate verbalizations, and like veritable connoisseurs of aspects amatory we endeavor to captivatingly incur the benevolence of the universally magistrate, multiplicitously engendered, and ultimately endogenous feminine sex. At suitably appropriate intervals we ensure that we incarnate ourselves in certain well-defined habitations and, in an utterly ecstatic venereal transport, we inculcate our virile members into the most interiorally located recesses of the pudenda of these meretricious but supremely amiable personages. Then we engage in gustatorial ingestion at the meritorious quaffing establishments of the Pine Cone, the Castle, the Magdalen, and the Mule, imbibing inter alia appropriately elongated comestibles, liberally perforinated with quantities of aromatic herbal concoction. On occasion, the hazards of aleatoric existence being what they are, and our pecuniary chambers being entirely evacuated of their contents, inclusive of all assorted metallic substances of recognized potency in such affairs, we obligatorily terminate our parsimony through the vendation of our printed textual sources, and equally of the habilitating furnishings of our persons, pending to be sure the anticipated arrival of alleviating remunerations from the trusted ancient source of original domestic succor.”

To which Pantagruel said:
“What the devil kind of language is this? By God, you must be some kind of heretic.”
Fran├žois Rabelais, Pantagruel