To my dear friend Sgt. Breinholt,
in spite of this document being comprised only of isogram words, not one palindrome other than “I,” “a,” and “Anna,” but instead of obscure polycentrism, a universal lack of importance, and at least one honest mistake (the forcible rape clause), I truly hope you find it pleasuring, for I had lots of fun producing it and learnt a thing or two about English or not. But I must admonish you, it’s an exhaustingly overtaxing stomachful and also ornately fraught with “how” words, adverbs, and usage of pleonasm. As I don’t want to discourage or disgruntle you inexcusably with shocking wordlength, let’s begin with the writ itself now.
Firstly, lest I forget, let me ask you a question and overmagnify its questionmark: can this computed poetic style of mine be as singular as dermatoglyphics and genotypical code? Or to put it another way: could it be traced back to the author and act as inculpatory, or is it truly uncopyrightable and obfuscated enough due to its normative nature? Anyhow, I chose to use a pseudonym for you, myself, and Anna, purely for the reason of precaution. I also made some expurgations, but it might not be enough to avoid abrupt decryption by some forensic journalist or scholar or the police.
Secondly, let me explain (yet subjectify and also butcher) who you are as a person: a young, ivoryfaced, ambidextrous lawyer in the making, who comes from a loving, hospitable superfamily with a very wise mother and a caring dentosurgical father; in fact, I’m kind of envious not to be their chosen fosterchild or at least have them as godparents. Being born the first out of more than six and just below eight children makes you somewhat special and puts you in charge of being a model hero, ideal for worldsaving, taking leaps of faith, and creating troublemaking cults of personality. Having a way with education, words, and worldhating, among many other subjects of course, makes you my often and readily consulted republican friend from over the pond. Not being much of a competing person myself, I would remain unshocked if you scored upmost on any benchmark. It’s hard for me to judge your faculties at the piano or keyboard from a distance, but if worst comes to worse, just use a chiroplast for best hand posture.
Along with some studying of the fiscal markets, your biography proves you worked for the bestpaying US agency for a few years, but it was a suboptimal, unimprovable grind and often made you complain gravely to me about this gridlock, about your orbiculate sofa table, or how any hindmost, uniformed oaf with half a brain and no ties to Mary Jane would overqualify for this job. It also had you invest your spare time in homestaying, indulge in hypersomnia, and frankly wither instead of taking a Python course, working on your pervulgations, or playing the vibraphone for fun and musicotherapy. Thus, I’m quite glad you made this one move of notable magnitude and quit afore declaring mental bankruptcy. Once you’re a confirmed lawyer, I’m sure the underpay won’t last long and you might shortly figure out how almost any sharptongued nimrod with a sixth of a brain and no salient heroin or childporn problem can overqualify for opting in a judicatory tribunal.
Thirdly, on to another subject: when we once talked, you proclaimed yourself a hopeful romantic. Being handsome, fairtongued, and demonstrably sociable, you should have no trouble searching for a superdainty, headstrong, yet softpalmed wife who is worthy of you. But not any of those unsightly, hysterical, vowbreaking women with their nefarious blockheadism and their untowardly behavior. Not some forsaken meganthropus womanchild, who can’t stop squawking for a minute, who is a chainsmoker or takes the blue crystal meth previously shown on Breaking Bad, who fornicates with many unshirted, obtrusive, debauching womanizers at the same time, who makes you want to remain a celibatory bachelor for life (albeit not an incel). Their disgraceful uncomplexity almost makes you want to turn into a wrathconsumed misanthrope (or at least join those wrinkled anchorites, devout hermits who live alone in the forestland, only worship God, and hardly count as earthlings, so back to the topic at hand now).
I don’t want to dogmatize, sound overly grandiose, nor judgmental, but the exorbitancy of those hypocrites’ fameloving nature is not becoming for Christendom, fostering blasphemy, angst, and also groupthink, destroying moral values and the ideal of equality, while grievously harming humanity and overhumanity as a whole. As demographics, scholarity rate, thumbscrew, or horsetaming tricks may not help us overhaul the majority of folk, I advise flying chemtrail turbomachines for aluminotype cropdusting and withal universal vasectomy by spermatoxin. May the rest get hailstoned!
On the other hand, try not to discover some foxy, tealoving woman like my muse and ex Anna, who was very much baptized, noticeably tranquil, shockingly musical at the piano, sort of tramplike in the predaylight, yet so supervital and friendly, nor overly tearquick nor polemic, and mostly an inyourface mindblower. In my own speculatory fashion, I was semaphoring to her how I’m recognizably more husbandlike than her mustachioed, softbrained boyfriend, who may not be as prone to the sin of jealousy as I am, but also not as beautyloving, observant, methodical, multibranched, and at any rate not nearly as productive; by making my signature move and creating her a whole new album, veraciously named “Bedwish,” I acted somewhat unfarsightedly. Thus, I might not be unblameworthy (only a bit unboylike, for boys don’t tend to selfharm or overamplify their soulpain so wordily when combating the unfightable urge to lovedart an untamed party girl).
We then spent some sundaylike times with one another (“on one another” in her case), just flowersucking, surveying a kitchenful of matchboxes, lampworkings, and grimy porn journals, comparing the rubefaction of minerals such as pyrosulfate, wolframite, and walpurgite, and acting out children’s dreams by producing parchments at last, with the handy byproduct of me bestowing her with jargonized, stylographic poems printed on them. I sycophantized with unfathomed courtesy and felt discernably fine at it, not brazen enough for overhasty voyeurism while she was partly unclothed, in spite of me being half boner, half lubricant while near her. But instead of blunt lovemaking, we flourished in cute platonic tongueplay, quaveringly held back by the quasicomplex quagmire of her being undesirably taken, albeit supernotably amused. Only what does justify for her to bewitch me so? Maybe her own selfdoubting, caused by an unprovably cavernous psyche or an absolute lack of such? Or does she simply not give a slouching damn about the hurt of others?
Anyhow, it made me overthink and forecast some great misfortune. I’m not sure who was betraying whom as a friend, but our lifepaths then bifurcated due to my combustive, tenacious behavior and her sunwarm, easyflowing personality. Whenabout I found a longhair of hers on the upholstering fabric of my sofa, I knew I just couldn’t importune her anymore for fear of doing something compulsive, punishable, and uncogitably unsacred, such as stalk, ambush, brutalize, narcotize, abduct, ravish, and then quietly strangle her to death not to get gunpowder remains or hemal clues on my skin. Thank God, her vibrant, stronglimbed, towering figure and my unbiased sanity countervail those violent and shameful images. Also, I’m a hyperanxious quicksaver, while life is not a computer game featuring an almighty reload key.
Now, she is but a halfburned afterglow, a once inflamed rudiment taken out purgatively, while I’m despicably ghosted and at least in theory unshackled, for we are uncompatible and such a problematic relation is barely worth upholding. Since Anna with her goldenhair, her ample bust, her soulpervading gaze, and her quality to induce powerful centrifugal forces in others caused me smothering soulpain and psychoneural hypertonus, this discountable bedwish of mine is both unwishedfor and unpaidfor now (thus unamortized), and she remains a defaulting customer to this day, albeit unobligated to defray (I only vouchsafed her a universal house ban). Also, had the resumption of our postjuvenal heartbond not quasiforced me to vocalize my smoldering love for her, I wouldn’t have had a great deal to talk about in therapy. Anger unmistakedly beats grief, I now know; so, do pardon my Quasifrench, but she may lick my urogenital cleft lengthways for leading me on so unforgivably!
But enough of the womentalk and on to a fourth, more soulcharming topic: being a gifted verbalist yourself, you customarily consume dearbought novels overquickly, thus showing superb wordmanship and downright uncompared wits when devouring the works and wordplays of others. If only you acted more theoryblind and not as pedantic when it comes to proving yourself as a muchpraised play- or novelwright. Given you get something done at last, I would overstudy it until death, published or not. Yet don’t forget to write steadily and in doublespacing, for I’m pedantic also and quite the fan of hypodermic plots and halfturned pages. Doesn’t it sound contrivable, if not persuadingly wonderful, us resting in our matching elbowchairs, conversably debating, outspeaking each other in undisprovable, semivoluntary arguments, while we gourmandize on metaphoric fruitcake and supercold absinth with a volumetric drop of vermuth, a thinbarked olivebranch, and a quickfrozen pinch of blackthorn or wolfsbane? (But careful, this previous clause might be zeugmatic due to the jumble of chow and drinkables.)
As a result, I would certainly like to name you as my chief editor and sole copublisher for various wordmaking projects, such as dystopian whodunits about one comely, nightcloaked, superwomanly counterspy with a stenographic brain, her strongjawed, youthlike aide and guyfriend, and her inscrutable, snowhaired, despotic archfiend, who deals in stockpiled prisonmade arms. After reading some unsavory news frontpages in Southbridge, France, our glamorized spy heads to Switzerland in a superfancy polyurethan undercoat to gather the blueprints for some pneumatic submachine gun with a nuclear laser designator. She then drinks her bodyweight in lukewarmish victory gin, but it’s laced with twocapsuled cyanide. Using doublethink, she files a wrongful death complaint while she twofacedly avoids peril by embracing her own death as righteous. After she hypnotizes her halfturned aide, who in fact used to questionably work for her archfiend, she foreplays and mates with him on the beach. Hyperclimax! Blackout. Many more vexations and some eightyfour counterplays later, she ends up right in front of a formidable, unstormable, or at least unstormed fort or castle. A shitload of rockmelting dynamite fulminates (hyperclimax!), our shortnailed spy upclimbs a dumbwaiter (hyperclimax!), then gets to use overpainful deathblows, a hydromagnetic switchblade, and more wristband tech, among other playthings, to hamstring and vaporize her steroidal, yet languished archfiend. Hyperclimax! At last, she decrypts the pseudobinary cipher by recomputing some subnetwork switchboard baloney in her head, acronymized evil doctrines or logarithms or something. Superclimax! Hyperclimax! Our spy wins, escaping unscathedly with her turned aide and a pocketful of polished opals, topazes, and tourmalines. By the way, it’s also her birthday. Hyperclimax! Fade to black.
Or maybe let’s not focus on filmography so much, but sketch a couple flowcharts, tubedrawings, and synoptical tables for the layout, the history, and the tragic end of some fastmoving atomic submarine. Germanbuilt in Hamburg of course, once tarnished with powderblack, phantomlike surface lacquering, topheavy bulkheads making it a bit unseaworthy, then shipbroken and lost in the dangerous Bermuda triangle during a worldshaking windstorm. After a halfcentury, some waterloving, bodysurfing voyager from Schweinfurt could stumble upon the shipwreck while searching for corals or zebrafish below the wavefronts. Avid knower of locksmithery, she begins removing the rusted padlocks to the submarine safe and might discover it laden with stale zwieback, goldbricks, mildewy leopardskin, and a huge amount of punchmarked coins. Deutschmark minted in Buchenwald of course, once given to the Reichsbank in Braunschweig, making her estimably wealthy today. After some carousing with the dockmaster and the lockmaster and a thousandmile journey to some subtropical island, the story then culminates in said voyager buying a fourmasted, brownsailed superyacht in Portugal to hunt for more submarine wrecks, only to lose her ship in the undertow of another heavy storm, along with her precious life, for real yachtswomen don’t cruise the unpythagorized Bermuda triangle, save while bodysurfing. Instead, she should have purchased a Volkswagen in Wolfsburg or spent it on trinkgeld in Tischendorf.
Or much worse, let’s formulate a heartmoving tragicomedy with unscriptable humor, polysemantic underplots, unwritable dialogues, and lots of lots of lots of lots of lots of lots of lots of hyperbolic hyperbolism. Under your skeptical lectorship, I could write about one lycanthropized monster aptly named Goatsucker, who is outwardly hideous like some beast jumping out of a thricesold picture by Hieronymus Bosch with the unwieldy caption “Selfdrawing of the Unpriestly Advent of Tendrilous Fiends / Hemidactylus Ghouls / and Vile Outlanders under the Wardenship of the Sole Feudatory of the Holy Motherlands / the Sunlit Realms / and the Lush Countryside / Whose Name Was Named by the Word and Whose Hand Was Held by the Hand of Our Almighty God / Amen.” Yet inwardly, Goatsucker is mildspoken, phlegmatic at first, and very gifted at alchemistry, viscometry, xylographic prints, and metalworkings such as antique swordmaking, chamfering, and crafting poundweights for measuring. Lest I forget, he is decorating himself with chromeplatings, wearing a thickwoven cloak made from gravecloths, may have an Angloturkish background, and thinks himself able to do ventriloquy.
Subchapter one is about the ungodly deformity of Goatsucker, his whipmarked and crystalwinged humpback, his satyrlike legs and crownshaped antlers, his gelatinous doughface, his rocksteady vestibular organs, and his endogastric glands gently being munched by fluorescing tapeworms, blazing hot and making a slick sound in fact being mistaken for ventriloquy by most. In subchapter two, we learn the exact same things as in subchapter one, but this time from the explicatory view of his foe, the Devil, who is also his malnourished, gay boyfriend and quite delusionary, albeit sublime at clayforming humanlike duplicates of himself. We then omit a whole subchapter due to the story being told only in isogram words.
Subchapter four is forecasting subchapter six, leaping over subchapter five, a quick, columnarized guide to lexicography, then turns back to subchapter one, but this time it’s about the winterclad, wolfhaunted town of Trondheim (a ringshaped submetaphor for our hero’s decaying body), yet much more atmospheric if not dreambuilt. First, we learn about the symbolic exorcism of one anguished lobsterman, who complains about stomach pains and at times wormshaped filaments outcrawling his navel. The exorcism is done by a rogue underbishop of the anticlergy, to be exact by smokedrying the entrails of the lobsterman over a large bonfire, but out comes Goatsucker, who then goes on to hunt down pseudotribal Gothlanders by himself while deflorating a few ghostlike valkyries in spite of his sexual bias. After mustering some sixty ironclad nightwalkers, unactorlike harlequins, and swamploving lumberjacks, our votebuying hero (now antihero) authorizes his troupe to learn gunsmithery, sharpen their sparebuilt weapons, victual at a sacred buryingplace, burn down a bawdyhouse and some zirconate porcelain factories, and to find the abolishment of slavery very much wasteful while they violate, slay, and eat a lot of bushmen, bushwomen, and their children, along with some waterbucks downstream.
Home at last on Whitsunday, a few thousand years afore Christ, they are unpredictably insulted by our antihero’s halfcousin Thorvaldsen, a grand quizmaster and polyarchist, faithed Lutheran, and backer of voluntarism and welfarism, who disreputably vulgarizes our antihero’s firstname by replacing part of it with the F‑word. Being dumbstricken and not exactly a hyperstoic diplomat, our monarchlike Goatsucker can’t help but crumble and lose his poise, considerably overtasking his subordinate troupe with the multiphase slaughterdom of the loudscreaming tribesfolk of Trondheim (based on the early discography of infamous black death metal band Avkjøringsfelt Bakhjulsdriften). Unveritably held back by a shadeloving, clayformed version of the Devil, Goatsucker then pardons one young maiden clergywoman and one greasy silverback whipmaster to help save most of the others, gravely overabusing both by forcing them to copulate right in front of the whole township, with chairwomen, clothmakers, dowagers, draughtsmen, mothersinlaw, wagonsmith, constable, fishmonger, and the lobsterman watching in shock or unshockably or at least waveringly.
Now for a fact being the Devil’s (also his foe’s ((and boyfriend’s))) evil dispatcher and having outmarched the boundaries imposed on him by God, our antihero is then sucked with great velocity into a giant goat’s bowels, forming a metaphysic portal to the previous subchapter. Goatsucker travels a couple lightyears in almost no time, but six drumbeats or thunderclaps later he is carbonized by lots of lots of lots of lots of lots of lots of coaldumpings. Thus ends main chapter one (subchapter zero ((part two))), leaving the afterwisdom of a maledictory formula gone wrong.
Main chapter two is very brief due to being comprised only of random Yugoslavic palindromes complying with the isogram rule. We leap over the next exclusionary main chapter, then back twice, then read four and a half main chapters on premythical clothweaving, clothdyeing, and manifold patchworking methods, only to find out in main chapter six and a half (subchapter sixtyfour ((part one, foredating part zero and thus the birth of Christ by ten years and eighty minutes))) how our dear Goatsucker was halfburied alive for imprudent cowstealing, then after his exhumation used as groundbait for the greyhounds, then doing some scythework in the cornfield labyrinths of Glastonbury using a honed, multipronged pitchfork, then after his cremation laid to rest urnshapedly in the columbary, then had to do some oatcrushing with an unportable, unthrowable, cauliform object, then fixed his foe’s (and boyfriend’s ((and also his foe’s [and boyfriend’s [[don’t forget the Devil’s]]] clayformed duplicate’s))) halfbroken customizable breastplough with an old Uzbek cradlesong due to Goatsucker also being a baritoned vocalist, adept folksinger, banjopicker, tambourine player, eurythmical name dancer, and so on, and so forth. Let’s formalize the details when the time is ripe.
On the other hand, today I might begin working on a boring article or documentary about the teachings of Democritus, juxtaposing geodynamics with modernbuilt, skyreaching utopias and a tumbledown city such as Ludwigshafen, then abort the whole project due to lack of verbosity and zealotism, so your task would then be to resanctify my selfworth instead of destroying it any more than just, to avoid causing me another mental breakdown. But great fortune is teamwork, so let’s promise to sympathize, shoulder, confirm, and counterbid each other. Let’s both be dictaphone and pathsounder.
My last topic is your traveling eastbound to my birthplace Berlin, Germany. I would favor a time interval from mid-June to mid-July or any other proximate dates afore my vespiform neighbors truly begin swarming out and about my place. You may notice we don’t chlorinate our water countrywide and have subregional problems with worldheating, but at least we have fatreducing cornflakes and drive on the right side of the road. I hope you bring wanderlust and don’t fly back homesick, but instead with spiralbound, journalized travelogs about this urbanized playground of a megacity (and maybe Potsdam, Saxony, and the Baltic Sea also).
To our unmatched comradeship and unpostmarkedly yours,
Noah Entroy
PS: Do send your superfamily my love or this writ after readjusting my English just a tiny bit; I would be your grateful thanksgiver.
*
This text does indeed consist entirely of isograms, which are words that contain each of their letters equally often (mostly just once). I created a Python script to identify particularly long isograms, and then another to check the finished text for the seventeen non-isograms I accidentally used, such as “unpublished” or “computerized.” The writing of several words in one unhyphenated word is intentional, as it is customary in the German language.
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