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Xanadu Moo
February 24th, 2006, 11:31 AM
On another episodic inclement of days, the maiden turned reluctantly to her intermediate affection artist with the deepest of searing glances and stared for moments on end, bequeathing all sense of masquerading for the lack of a paltry introspective felicity that would permit such a contrivance, making her feel as though what formerly posed as a grandiloquent potpourri of mystical emotions had since turned into a rankled litany of furtiveness from which no single shred of humanity had been acknowledged to render, nor had any dared commit to, for once in such intensified clutches the woeful wills of an overly cantankerous aura relented to the more puerile sector, culminating in frivolous mirth heretofore uncovered via yon enraptured angst, mitigating the heartfelt for the imminence of a rapscallion curiosity at best, a mark left so indelible as to wring the inner sanctum with fervent clarity impervious to convoluted absorption while short-shrifted on hegemony in a fortuitous display of lethargic palpitations worthy of unadulterated catharsis to the optimum level, for which she languished amidst a backdrop of serpentine malfeasance beyond the reaches of literal serendipity without recompense for ageless self-governance, gently floating into the frothing briny of malice unto a mock haven foretelling the densest of fortifications as has been absconded to during erstwhile specimens of confluence, to pontificate breathlessly ad nauseum, to regenerate a glittered past now belonging stealthily in the servitude of portentous influx, and thus she ingratiates her churned reserve as a niggling respite of sorts, stolid practitioner of firm egocentric folly, her sinewy shadow at once swathing a smooth glide into the fecund rest of catatonic walls, and her hypnotic crescendo of mellifluous, iconoclastic recidivism juxtaposes the hint of anathema from her cryptic yet recondite abyss, ever truculent in her ways to exacerbate an agenda so engrossed in fraternal longings that one would someday emphatically recant without cause for enlightened mass euphoria, ameliorated only by jettisoned parsimony indigenous to the unfettered climactic improvisation of complicit and utter apoplectic pandemonium which permeates all she knows whereby hers is an unending beginning into the inverted procession of lackluster dimensions, a quintessential entanglement methodically fortified sans the providential vicissitudes of cognizant earthly hinges.

sylouette
February 24th, 2006, 04:41 PM
And the moral of the story is.............?

Mr. Hyde
February 24th, 2006, 07:36 PM
I feel smarter for reading that. I like the searing lack of dumbing it down.

HappyLady
February 25th, 2006, 11:17 AM
Awwww...it's a LOVE story! SEE!


On another episodic inclement of days, the maiden turned reluctantly to her intermediate affection artist with the deepest of searing glances and stared for moments on end, bequeathing all sense of masquerading for the lack of a paltry introspective felicity that would permit such a contrivance, making her feel as though what formerly posed as a grandiloquent potpourri of mystical emotions had since turned into a rankled litany of furtiveness from which no single shred of humanity had been acknowledged to render, nor had any dared commit to, for once in such intensified clutches the woeful wills of an overly cantankerous aura relented to the more puerile sector, culminating in frivolous mirth heretofore uncovered via yon enraptured angst, mitigating the heartfelt for the imminence of a rapscallion curiosity at best, a mark left so indelible as to wring the inner sanctum with fervent clarity impervious to convoluted absorption while short-shrifted on hegemony in a fortuitous display of lethargic palpitations worthy of unadulterated catharsis to the optimum level, for which she languished amidst a backdrop of serpentine malfeasance beyond the reaches of literal serendipity without recompense for ageless self-governance, gently floating into the frothing briny of malice unto a mock haven foretelling the densest of fortifications as has been absconded to during erstwhile specimens of confluence, to pontificate breathlessly ad nauseum, to regenerate a glittered past now belonging stealthily in the servitude of portentous influx, and thus she ingratiates her churned reserve as a niggling respite of sorts, stolid practitioner of firm egocentric folly, her sinewy shadow at once swathing a smooth glide into the fecund rest of catatonic walls, and her hypnotic crescendo of mellifluous, iconoclastic recidivism juxtaposes the hint of anathema from her cryptic yet recondite abyss, ever truculent in her ways to exacerbate an agenda so engrossed in fraternal longings that one would someday emphatically recant without cause for enlightened mass euphoria, ameliorated only by jettisoned parsimony indigenous to the unfettered climactic improvisation of complicit and utter apoplectic pandemonium which permeates all she knows whereby hers is an unending beginning into the inverted procession of lackluster dimensions, a quintessential entanglement methodically fortified sans the providential vicissitudes of cognizant earthly hinges.

Thanks, Xan! I LOVE love stories about ME! (There's no changing my mind on this. I don't have a dictionary to translate the true meaning of this infinite run-on...so...my heart is compensating for my brain's ignorance. Yep. It's a love story for ME!) :kiss: :lol:

sylouette
February 25th, 2006, 08:34 PM
I closed dictionary.com after the first four sentences and just said "F*CK THAT NOISE!"

PerVirtuous
February 26th, 2006, 03:29 AM
I sent away to Mattell and got a secret Xanadu Moo decoder ring. I will now make the modern day rosetta stone of posts. I am not convinced of HL's interpretation. What is this? First, Syl thinks everything is about her and now HL thinks everything is about her? I, for one, am not surprised that HL thinks everything is about her. I've seen it before. No, folks it is about me, well, not me really, but about how guys like me always get the girl, much to the dismay of the smart guys. Yes, this is indeed frustrated love prose of the highest order. I have tried to capture the inner meaning without losing any of the profound nature of the piece. Here goes.



On another episodic inclement of days, the maiden turned reluctantly to her intermediate affection artist with the deepest of searing glances and stared for moments on end,

On a blustery day, the b!tch hardly noticed me but at least made eye contact


bequeathing all sense of masquerading for the lack of a paltry introspective felicity that would permit such a contrivance,

or rather looked through me like I wasn’t even there


making her feel as though what formerly posed as a grandiloquent potpourri of mystical emotions had since turned into a rankled litany of furtiveness from which no single shred of humanity had been acknowledged to render,

she doesn’t understand the way I talk to her, so she ignores me


nor had any dared commit to, for once in such intensified clutches the woeful wills of an overly cantankerous aura relented to the more puerile sector,

so I pretend I don’t like her either, b!tch


culminating in frivolous mirth heretofore uncovered via yon enraptured angst, mitigating the heartfelt for the imminence of a rapscallion curiosity at best,

‘Cause she likes the hot guy better, friggin' dickweed! Hey, no need to get personal!


a mark left so indelible as to wring the inner sanctum with fervent clarity impervious to convoluted absorption while short-shrifted on hegemony in a fortuitous display of lethargic palpitations worthy of unadulterated catharsis to the optimum level,

and it hurts Wah!


for which she languished amidst a backdrop of serpentine malfeasance beyond the reaches of literal serendipity without recompense for ageless self-governance,

obviously, she was brainwashed


gently floating into the frothing briny of malice unto a mock haven foretelling the densest of fortifications as has been absconded to during erstwhile specimens of confluence, to pontificate breathlessly ad nauseum,

She’d rather talk to the brain-dead dummy than me Hey!


to regenerate a glittered past now belonging stealthily in the servitude of portentous influx, and thus she ingratiates her churned reserve as a niggling respite of sorts,

but she still manages to string me along anyways


stolid practitioner of firm egocentric folly, her sinewy shadow at once swathing a smooth glide into the fecund rest of catatonic walls, and her hypnotic crescendo of mellifluous,

even though it is so High-School it makes me gag It should!


iconoclastic recidivism juxtaposes the hint of anathema from her cryptic yet recondite abyss,

she’s so cute I can’t stand it


ever truculent in her ways to exacerbate an agenda so engrossed in fraternal longings that one would someday emphatically recant without cause for enlightened mass euphoria,

but she might change, come to her senses, and like me after all Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, yeah, uh-huh, sure.


ameliorated only by jettisoned parsimony indigenous to the unfettered climactic improvisation of complicit and utter apoplectic pandemonium which permeates all she knows …

'cause she’s, like, scatterbrained and you never know. Those hair chemicals can do things to you. Hold your breath, you never know.:lol: :lol: :lol:

Well, Xan, how'd I do? (The ring was damaged in transit so there may be a few slight errors here or there, but all in all I think it is pretty nearly a slight possibility that it may come somewhat near your original meaning?)

Xanadu Moo
February 27th, 2006, 09:59 AM
Well, Xan, how'd I do? (The ring was damaged in transit so there may be a few slight errors here or there, but all in all I think it is pretty nearly a slight possibility that it may come somewhat near your original meaning?)
Considering the disadvantage you had of using an outdated version of the ring, and that the defibrilator inside was obviously malfunctioning, it's amazing you did as well as you did. And yet, to put that in perspective, HappyLady's method probably had just as much precision.

It might be rather uncouth if I attempted to regenerate the entire poem, but I will dissect bits and pieces.

First, PerV's overall analysis:

this is indeed frustrated love prose of the highest order.
One could definitely say that. And one could be right as well.


I have tried to capture the inner meaning without losing any of the profound nature of the piece.
You succeeded until you started typing, and yet it was still quite a valiant attempt nonetheless.

making her feel as though what formerly posed as a grandiloquent potpourri of mystical emotions had since turned into a rankled litany of furtiveness from which no single shred of humanity had been acknowledged to render,
PerV's reading: she doesn't understand the way I talk to her, so she ignores me
Implied meaning: her once elegant yet naive impression of a presumed process for which the gamut runs through all glorious ecstasy instead delivered the harshest of realities that the elevated dreams set up even one as unassuming as she for a heavy-laden portion of despair symbolized by the elusive and transient nature of one's most intimate embraces lost amidst the everpresent ramshackle of the pathos that we are all somehow locked inside

You were on the right track. You get bonus points for capturing a prime moment in the poem that brings much of it together, and yet later as it all unravels, the spectacle engulfs itself and becomes self-defining.

stolid practitioner of firm egocentric folly, her sinewy shadow at once swathing a smooth glide into the fecund rest of catatonic walls,
PerV's reading: even though it is so High-School it makes me gag It should!
Implied meaning: a prisoner-in-waiting bound by her own chains of listless gratification, a harbinger of her perpetual state of longing for substance while grasping only the haunting charades

Here we're just building up toward the climax. The rest of the piece follows in that same mold. Ultimately, it can't be explained unless it is first felt, so I'd need to know what you're feeling.

sylouette
February 27th, 2006, 10:08 AM
The rest of the piece follows in that same mold. Ultimately, it can't be explained unless it is first felt, so I'd need to know what you're feeling.

I'm feeling stupid.

PerVirtuous
February 27th, 2006, 01:56 PM
Considering the disadvantage you had of using an outdated version of the ring, and that the defibrilator inside was obviously malfunctioning, it's amazing you did as well as you did. And yet, to put that in perspective, HappyLady's method probably had just as much precision.

It might be rather uncouth if I attempted to regenerate the entire poem, but I will dissect bits and pieces.

First, PerV's overall analysis:

One could definitely say that. And one could be right as well.


You succeeded until you started typing, and yet it was still quite a valiant attempt nonetheless.


Well, I suspected as much. I mostly felt the same way about the meaning in this monstrosity, it had profound meaning right up until you made binary code of it.



making her feel as though what formerly posed as a grandiloquent potpourri of mystical emotions had since turned into a rankled litany of furtiveness from which no single shred of humanity had been acknowledged to render,
PerV's reading: she doesn't understand the way I talk to her, so she ignores me
Implied meaning: her once elegant yet naive impression of a presumed process for which the gamut runs through all glorious ecstasy instead delivered the harshest of realities that the elevated dreams set up even one as unassuming as she for a heavy-laden portion of despair symbolized by the elusive and transient nature of one's most intimate embraces lost amidst the everpresent ramshackle of the pathos that we are all somehow locked inside

She can't get off really, really good because she doesn't trust anybody.


You were on the right track. You get bonus points for capturing a prime moment in the poem that brings much of it together, and yet later as it all unravels, the spectacle engulfs itself and becomes self-defining.

I gathered that from the inclusive nature of the individualistic sublimity of the unfathomable prosthesis of mixed metaphors.




stolid practitioner of firm egocentric folly, her sinewy shadow at once swathing a smooth glide into the fecund rest of catatonic walls,
PerV's reading: even though it is so High-School it makes me gag It should!
Implied meaning: a prisoner-in-waiting bound by her own chains of listless gratification, a harbinger of her perpetual state of longing for substance while grasping only the haunting charades


Yeah. A discriminating yet perfunctory methodology for cluing in the neurosis of borderline nymphomania, specifically when on the older age of phallic narcissistic compulsion, to be loved, but not be completely intimate, causing acute contactlessness and hypersexuality with little hope of full activation of the parasympathetic nervous system, thus spinning the libido into a state of continuous flux due to inability to experience comprehensive core orgasm, yet facilitating the need for such release exponentially. Gnarly!



Here we're just building up toward the climax. The rest of the piece follows in that same mold. Ultimately, it can't be explained unless it is first felt, so I'd need to know what you're feeling.

Dissappointed. Why can't I find a girl like that?

Xanadu Moo
February 27th, 2006, 04:50 PM
Thanks, Xan! I LOVE love stories about ME! (There's no changing my mind on this. I don't have a dictionary to translate the true meaning of this infinite run-on...so...my heart is compensating for my brain's ignorance. Yep. It's a love story for ME!) :kiss: :lol:
You're better than a decryption program, for sure. I got out the translators to decipher your deciphering.

On another episodic inclement of days, the maiden turned reluctantly to her intermediate affection artist with the deepest of searing glances and stared for moments on end, bequeathing all sense of masquerading for the lack of a paltry introspective felicity that would permit such a contrivance, making her feel as though what formerly posed as a grandiloquent potpourri of mystical emotions had since turned into a rankled litany of furtiveness from which no single shred of humanity had been acknowledged to render, nor had any dared commit to, for once in such intensified clutches the woeful wills of an overly cantankerous aura relented to the more puerile sector, culminating in frivolous mirth heretofore uncovered via yon enraptured angst, mitigating the heartfelt for the imminence of a rapscallion curiosity at best, a mark left so indelible as to wring the inner sanctum with fervent clarity impervious to convoluted absorption while short-shrifted on hegemony in a fortuitous display of lethargic palpitations worthy of unadulterated catharsis to the optimum level, for which she languished amidst a backdrop of serpentine malfeasance beyond the reaches of literal serendipity without recompense for ageless self-governance, gently floating into the frothing briny of malice unto a mock haven foretelling the densest of fortifications as has been absconded to during erstwhile specimens of confluence, to pontificate breathlessly ad nauseum, to regenerate a glittered past now belonging stealthily in the servitude of portentous influx, and thus she ingratiates her churned reserve as a niggling respite of sorts, stolid practitioner of firm egocentric folly, her sinewy shadow at once swathing a smooth glide into the fecund rest of catatonic walls, and her hypnotic crescendo of mellifluous, iconoclastic recidivism juxtaposes the hint of anathema from her cryptic yet recondite abyss, ever truculent in her ways to exacerbate an agenda so engrossed in fraternal longings that one would someday emphatically recant without cause for enlightened mass euphoria, ameliorated only by jettisoned parsimony indigenous to the unfettered climactic improvisation of complicit and utter apoplectic pandemonium which permeates all she knows whereby hers is an unending beginning into the inverted procession of lackluster dimensions, a quintessential entanglement methodically fortified sans the providential vicissitudes of cognizant earthly hinges.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Step 1:<o:p></o:p>
HappyLady is perfection I love HappyLady the most she is the light of my world and rocks my earth<o:p></o:p>

After removing the jibberish in red, it left 2374 characters and spaces. Divide by two to eliminate the duality of meaning, and you get 1187, which is the 195th prime number. Take the word 'HAPPY', remove all incidental vowels since they're linguistically irrelevant, you get 'HPPY'. The H is the 8th letter, the P is the 16th letter counted twice, and the Y is the 25th letter, adding up to 65. The kicker can only be applied while playing Scrabble and then applying the rules using only the Triple Word score, with the A as a blank tile, and you get 195 points, which is a connection to the 195th prime number. The 195th day of a non-leap year is July 14, which is Gerald Ford's birthday. If he lives till then, he'll tie Ronald Reagan for the longest-living former U.S. president, at 93 years old. So this is obviously a plot to assassinate Ford, no doubt at Lincoln's Theater. I suspect Happy Wilkes-Lady. Notify the authorities at once...

sylouette
February 27th, 2006, 04:54 PM
Wow! You guys wanna borrow my card key???? :lol:

Xanadu Moo
February 28th, 2006, 02:38 PM
I gathered that from the inclusive nature of the individualistic sublimity of the unfathomable prosthesis of mixed metaphors.
Now you're getting it...


A discriminating yet perfunctory methodology for cluing in the neurosis of borderline nymphomania, specifically when on the older age of phallic narcissistic compulsion, to be loved, but not be completely intimate, causing acute contactlessness and hypersexuality with little hope of full activation of the parasympathetic nervous system, thus spinning the libido into a state of continuous flux due to inability to experience comprehensive core orgasm, yet facilitating the need for such release exponentially. Gnarly!
Precisely. This selfsame inference constitutes the paragon of a recondite confluence for which you heretofore superfluously advocated, and I subsequently applaud your didactive pretense obfuscated as schematic anathema. Bravo, my convoluted one. Bravo!


Dissappointed. Why can't I find a girl like that?
You'd have to look in the comic books. They're simply caricatures. But caricatures can be fun too. Just don't let your other imaginary friends get jealous.

Snoop
February 28th, 2006, 02:47 PM
Wow! You guys wanna borrow my card key???? :lol:I don't get it. What's a card key???

sylouette
February 28th, 2006, 03:32 PM
I don't get it. What's a card key???

A card key is what is used in most hotels nowadays to unlock your room. It looks like a credit card and slides into a slot attached to the door which unlocks the door. The advantage to it is that the lock codes are automatically changed when the visitor checks out so that the card cannot be reused for that same room.

Snoop
February 28th, 2006, 03:35 PM
A card key is what is used in most hotels nowadays to unlock your room. It looks like a credit card and slides into a slot attached to the door which unlocks the door.That's what I thought - what does that have to do with encrypted messages?

sylouette
February 28th, 2006, 03:39 PM
That's what I thought - what does that have to do with encrypted messages?

When I read this encrypted message Xanadu wrote in his story for HL, I suggested they get a room.:lol:


HappyLady is perfection I love HappyLady the most she is the light of my world and rocks my earth.

Enough said?

Snoop
February 28th, 2006, 03:40 PM
When I read this encrypted message Xanadu wrote in his story for HL, I suggested they get a room.:lol:



Enough said?I think he meant to post that in the "Lust" thread :dunno: