Hennig Brand was a German chemist who discovered phosphorus. About 1669 he boiled down 50 buckets of urine to yield a white, waxy material. He named it phosphorus (“light bearer”) because it glowed in the dark. Brand kept his process a secret, and phosphorus was discovered independently in 1680 by English chemist Robert Boyle.
Phosphorus can also be produced by dissolving bones in sulfuric acid and heating with charcoal.
Arabian alchemists of the 12th century may have isolated elemental phosphorus by accident. The UN Commission on Elemental Objectivity is conducting an inquiry.
Send me all the information and I’ll get right on the case, or my name’s not Rumpelstiltskin. Which of course it’s not. That leaves you two guesses. Spill the beans if you still got the guts.
Okay, here’s the beans once and forever. Even during limbo Solomon had more wives than one. One was my darling Clementine, who’s now gone forever. A casualty in the war of the Beans and the Franks over some Frankenstein pewter.
We will take this break in the action while the fleet lies in the doldrums to introduce some lesser members of the crew.
Suwanei Rivers started his life in a shed behind the adult movie studio in Montezuma, Colorado. Soon he was performing with feets of levitation that no one could endure. He built an orrery when he was 11 but nobody knew what it was. He sold out to Amazon for a billion dollars of undiluted stock and was thus able to pursue his enemies and pamper his friends.
He cashed in his gene bank and started again as a developing artist. This time around the levitation was taken more seriously. He made a handsome living at it until he was caught looking at girly pictures in the tidal flats of the Bay of Fundy. After spending 15 seasons at the South Pole for reasons that remain confidential he was seconded to the expedition, as I have directly from Panurge.
The oui ours of the mourning, when the earthworms turn over in their groves. Tick. Grownless fears of cosmoonauts and seafarers. Tock. Quell her, ate il? Dick’s o’cock and all’s ‘swell.
Then one foggy hockey night, from the trouser trolls came the starry messenger. Jumpin jimnosperms! Snatched from the Jawsovass by yr mother’s tongue.
From the east three wiseguy anchormen rode the airwaves. Blest with inborn terrors of metabolism, stillbeans runt deep. Like true bit players they knocked at every dusty dormatory but never knuckled under. Their progress was filmed over world locations. (Thanks to the gallivanting man and galvanizing women who forged this diskomentary. Honorable cabinetmaker and his unter counterfitters.) Reel whorld, rewind again to the. The unelectable modality of the televisible. You can tell true norths by the swagger of their satellite dish.
Loose lip sync ship, admirable. Don’t make waves for the only snowplow in Hawaii. Mice eeny attic. Those salami days are hef a yearbook aweigh. Come the revoluption we’ll elute to a different drummer, yr insolvency.
Hault! Hoo ghosts there? Friend or photon? Mirage, blinded with jalousies. Why would a blind man don a shirt with callers? Bomblast and flustian be darned, it was out of one freudian pun or innuendo. Networks in the howls. Noble gas. Two headaches are better than onions. Maybe now I can get some sleeps. Bone a petit, Aquinas.
The moon is rosin, starstrummin. Zodiac is what we dodecadance to. The fairbooted fringe philosopher’s second rerun, loitering up Main Street, our fourth instar inveterate. Did ya gettys address, port? The bells I hear. What noose from the felt branches? The infidel castrato. Hoist the bastard to lynch. At the bay of pigs, when the crocketts got hoarse, we hung a second looie. O joyous day! Guillotine of character intoxication. He’ll die in vain to get life. We ooh it to ahselves as free radicles. When we had the chance, we shoulda clapped him in the clamor and thrown the book away. Away that kin be spoken of.
Come for a spin in the turin machin? That’s coit alriot. Ivy forgiven yew. Forgiven even yr good name. Thirty paces de resistance in one silver-tongued battery. Suspended sentences.
He looked over his shoulder to see the music box set afire by a very projective patter of young women into which he wanted to insert his twobits before the vending was over. The morel menangerer, that milkywayed saprophyte, is diene to release their bonds.
Suffocating spiritual babbage. Coupling chromodynamics and constant static. Wirds like old time on every branch and peeling. A whopping percentage are having sexual problems. Foreign hand worth two in bush. Can we have a bit tweet? Starborn and french bred. You got to be a football hero. Gnawing halfhearted she bit into bone. Alice doesn’t live in wonderland anymore. Guth to look up (a field of ups. Hummer and satchel) that article under lingere. But the librarians are stacked agin me.
The son is horizon. To the H-Bomb hideaway, where seldom is heard (quark!) a critical mass for the blasted trinity. Old Muddler Hubble’s mortal sin. Slap him silicon for missing mess. Cross yr bows.
And us? We’ve got more guts than Great Red Spots. Letus zenopause for refreshmen, ladies and paramedics. Metaphysics.
Off kilter, off danzen, oft blunder and gluons. Blame it on crooked politics. Would the nox gassed police state yr name?
He was born gutless. Then he gut busted looking at girly pictures. Said he chanced upon the issues in the gutter outside the maternity ward. He who once jeopardized the family jewels now seeks a handout.
A letter of marque and reprisal (French: lettre de marque; lettre de course) was a government license in the age of sail that authorized a private person, known as a privateer or corsair, to attack and capture vessels of a nation at war with the issuer.
Grotius’s 1604 work on international law, De Iure Praedae (Of The Law of Prize and Booty), was an advocate’s brief defending Dutch raids on Spanish and Portuguese shipping in Singapore.
Hugo Grotius (1583 – 1645), also known as Huig de Groot or Hugo de Groot, was a Dutch jurist. He was imprisoned for his involvement in the intra-Calvinist disputes of the Dutch Republic, but escaped hidden in a chest of books shouldered by a dark-eyed houri.
In 1913, notes, sketches, and photographs recorded by captain Beauregard Xenomanes during the tenure of his letter of marque from our beloved king Pantagruel were discovered in East Prussia. Xenomanes had served honourably as left lieutenant, asleep at the helm, on the voyage to the bottle.
According to the notes, Xenomanes was captain and navigator on the search for Upper Gondwanaland. He was accompanied by Panurge, an esteemed confidant of Pantagruel, though of common ancestry. Panurge’s genetic files had been leaked to the press in a textbook example of yellow journalism. A random sample would prove his undoing. To keep him out of the picture, he was seconded to the expedition as jack of all trades.
As the fleet departed, Panurge was asked by a stringer for Evening News for his impressions on the recent royal funeral. He replied, “Fuckingham Phallus and Princesse Fill-up-Arena played lift her leg and poker until the hindmost was bedevilled.”
Xenomanes himself was not quite himself at that time.