A Tall TAiL

Hello worldweb, my weird friend; I’ve come to write on you agAin, about a tall t’Ail creeping. . . that flipped its tAils while I was sleeping and the image that was planted in my brAin, still remAins. along the webs of AiLence. To Witman, who wandered lonely in the Cloud: In the fifth year of donald the dweeb, king of fifth revenue, a streaming twAit dropped in while I was streaming in the province ulAi. On the the 21st day of the third month, while I was scurfing on the web, I lifted up mine eyes and looked, and behold; there was an icon, programmed in the guise of coded jazz, and all that razzmatazz. And I discerned the message that it wrote to me. To begin with, he looked like a knight-con in shining code, and before I could say tweetledee, I was suddenly feeling tweetledumb. (But. I transgress; Ai guess.) “Oh Danube tube, grok the the tweeb” said he, as if I should agree. “It took me a wild to get here, cuz the programmer of PruizAi was giving me a hard time,” said he. “That sAid, I just dropped in to see what condition your condition was in. . . agAin.” “No problemo”, said I. :What’s up?: “The prince of DOjE is about to drop in to see what condition your condition is in. He’ll be giving you a hard time, but not to worry, We’ve got it Aill under control. All you gotta do is pay the toll. Comprendez? “I’m tracking with ya” said Ai. “Where are we going?” “I’ll get to that” said he, “but i can give you a clue . . . a preview, so to tweek. It Ain’t what you think; it may be a mystery wrapped in an enigma, or. . . maybe not. We shall see. It depends on what you say to me.” And there I was smurfing in the streaming ULAi, wondering, pondering. . . and then, bAi and bAi, I responded; “Let us go then, U and Ai. . . in the wardrobe of the knight, to don what armour that we might. . . to assign what code that we may find, perhaps ahead, perhaps behind. . .to do the best we can, so Left can do the same as Right again. . . just like the ole days!” The prince of DOjE gave me a funny look; a grokkish smile came across his face. I think from his sleeve he had pulled up an ace, or it might have been a face. We sat there face to face. “Book it,” said he. “and you can take that to the bank. It’s the art of the steal,” said he. “Say what?” “The art of the steal. We’re going to deal your job away, or your social mercurial chek, depending on which comes first. Butt not to worry; ’t’is not nearly so bad as a mad train wreck, such as folk would find in nineteen twenty-nine, or nineteen thirty-nine, or nineteen eighty four, whichever one will close the door. “The door?” said Ai. What door are we talking about here? I need to know which way to turn. . . when, y’know, when zero checks come in the mail, and my golf score is beyond the pale... I mean, I’m like, clueless, like kevin when he met shoeless joe jackson. I thirst, said I. Please give a drink in this dry and dreary land. Or tell me what it is—this new Doje plan. I would like to grok it if I can.” “Hey” said he. ’T’is no big deal; rather, ’t’is the art of the steal. UlAi get over it, by ’n by, in the sweet bAi and bAi.”

And with that, he twittered away, with no Xplanations. Stepping on board his starblink, while I stood there, by and by. Let us think, then, you and Ai: What fearsome hand or Ai, can program thy fearful symmetrAi? But hey! You gotta roll with the punches, n’est que ce pas? As B’lingo had crooned, back in the good ole days. . . “Now it’s time to say good night; good byte, stream to the Right. Dream sweet dreams. . . in coded streams. Dream sweet dreams.” And Ai told him that! Glass half-Full