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At an early age I was guided to Joyce's work through reviews of John Lennon's books. They were described as “Joycean”. About this person Joyce that was mentioned I immediately wondered: "Who is she?" Since then I have become a leading James Joyce scholar and have won many awards for my groundbreaking...Oh, screw it. All I've done is write silly Joycean wordplay stuff like that which follows. And if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, the piece could be more sincere, but not more imitative. Please read. (Or, if you think that Joyce was a wanker whose writing in Ulysses and Finnegans Wake was just scamming the lit world, please don’t read. Because it will just piss you off.) (JDF)
Missed It Again, Dammit (Another Late Bloomsday Post) A Joycean Rant "Happy Belabored Bloomsday!" He writhes to anyall in green in his little oatbark after some mind-tingle ("Boast three farce oughta four, boyos!") with Finnegoon’s Lark. "Wot! Not Ularses!?" Cracks the peedle who no. "Butterhatch yer tuxes," he explodes whilst withering the queeners with a wail of his wand. So then its true, he whips to Themself who err snorkeling the mongous, now in every collar and dire hew. (Remaindering the little phial, he’s too much to the pint. He bespells another tithe and makes him a single dry ambulant. Or, in plane fart: an oily date.) "Humelomie!" he cows, at last bestride the harf to her holmes. "Yerlisees crumbs to my embryo as if Cambriannabofanna was early yesterdust!"
"Abuncle then, hot titten toot", she mulches while enumbrating his backbeaten Skunktown song. "Iver North -- yet smeared like a twice-tiered idiot -- abounds with the great and the snail," she yams, her-newly barbed hair aglob in the shite of the lord. "A fine foisting of my fettered foe," he snakes, besmearing the same dolt with imprisoned ice. "But if we pump the bipkins by the heated cameload, alone we'll count among each one, as tho two’d be useless. Yes?" "A wallopcots dingledear!" she encroaches, stunned and unrebashed, artless bland pushing herself out of this one. "Or as any weeze nose twits it, 'Iver smelt the swarm in the swoon.'" "A lick better yet then," he expires. "His gush (old Iver's) will arrive unbevied (if at all); and worse for the worts from Time's wack," he notes noting, as he enjoins her with his simpering stew, aboil and ready for the guffling, and addling a taste full enorma to the preceeding. Last update : 20-06-2007 18:48
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