Gonzalo Fernández de Canela and Christopher de Rómulo Oviedo y Valdés were to meet Gallegos y Gallegos behind the Waymart the Friday before the Feast of the Comeuppance. Gonzalo Fernández de Canela saying to Christopher de Rómulo Oviedo y Valdés ‘--this is the place, its buried here… under the 27th pew from the altar, if we count back from 1001 we should have no difficulty finding…’. ‘--the glove?’ interrupted Christopher de Rómulo Oviedo y Valdés. ‘--yes?’ said Gonzalo Fernández de Canela in a censorious voice, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Christopher de Rómulo Oviedo y Valdés upon turning noticed Gallegos y Gallegos standing straight as maypole behind the Waymart.
Fixing his gaze on Gonzalo Fernández de Canela he said ‘--he’s here’. ‘--we best get the ropes from the cart’ said Gonzalo Fernández de Canela, ‘--before he thinks we’re lazing about doing nothing’. Gonzalo Fernández de Canela, Christopher de Rómulo Oviedo y Valdés and Gallegos y Gallegos were but three of many who coveted the missing whore’s glove. The barrister Simms, unbeknown to his wife, coveted the missing whore’s glove, as did the rector’s assistant, for reasons of a daemonic nature, the glove being a golden calf, and Dejesus, for whom the glove represented the end of hatred and jealousy in the world; all who had come in contact with the glove, be it through travel, happenstance or duress, coveted the glove, the glove having a power over people far overreaching any women’s apparel, be it nightshirt, corset or lacy underclothes.
What’s all this buffoonery about whores and gloves? The two appear together like yesterday and tomorrow, everything and nothing, sunrise and sunset. To think otherwise is to covet buffoons and clowns, gadflies and busybodies, cranks and nitwits. Fyn told me that a man’s Svendborg is his castle… On the island of Funen upriver from Langeland, Ærø and Tåsinge, Møller-Mærsk Fyn opens a letter from Valdemar the Victorious (Valdemar Sejr) announcing the investiture of Walpurgis Night, to be followed the next day by national Flag Day, a day of highfaluting rejoicing. ‘--but where will we ever find enough whore’s gloves to appease the throngs?’ said the second assistant to the first assistant. ‘--I’ve heard say of a place beyond the Ærø across the Tåsinge where a man can buy as many whore’s gloves as his heart commands…’ said the first assistant to the second and third. ‘--Vincennes…’. ‘--Vincennes, yes I recall the name’ added the third assistant, the second and first assistants beside themselves with joy.
Gloving and whoring found their meter in the early Dark Ages, a time of low-culture and swank haberdashery. A time when Lux Ex Orient rang throughout the land, summoning the Teutonic Knights to the knee of Pope Gregory IX, Inquisititor, whereupon he cautions them ‘be wary of tomfools and heretics’, sidesaddle to Pope Gregory IX Pope Innocent IV, his face red as fresh meat, requests Isabella’s fair hand in dance, Pope Sixtus IV arriving by landau, his Chantilly frayed and torn, demanding of Lucas de Tuy ‘as we speak the Moorish are convening… get thy shoulder beneath the wheel, I command you be fleet and unnerved… now get moving we have no time to waste’, his booming command catching the ear of Torquemada Pope Paul III, his Miter tippling on the tonsure of his head, who decrees in a deep Bassano voice ‘Galileo, who you will find on page 27½ of the Liborurm Prohibitorum, is a crackpot, a heretic… I demand that you set his telescope on fire!’… and off in the far to middling distance, his threadworn surplice gathered round his shoulders, Giordano Bruno, pale and ashen, sits in the sanctum dais playing pinochle with two monks and an ass.
Fixing his gaze on Gonzalo Fernández de Canela he said ‘--he’s here’. ‘--we best get the ropes from the cart’ said Gonzalo Fernández de Canela, ‘--before he thinks we’re lazing about doing nothing’. Gonzalo Fernández de Canela, Christopher de Rómulo Oviedo y Valdés and Gallegos y Gallegos were but three of many who coveted the missing whore’s glove. The barrister Simms, unbeknown to his wife, coveted the missing whore’s glove, as did the rector’s assistant, for reasons of a daemonic nature, the glove being a golden calf, and Dejesus, for whom the glove represented the end of hatred and jealousy in the world; all who had come in contact with the glove, be it through travel, happenstance or duress, coveted the glove, the glove having a power over people far overreaching any women’s apparel, be it nightshirt, corset or lacy underclothes.
What’s all this buffoonery about whores and gloves? The two appear together like yesterday and tomorrow, everything and nothing, sunrise and sunset. To think otherwise is to covet buffoons and clowns, gadflies and busybodies, cranks and nitwits. Fyn told me that a man’s Svendborg is his castle… On the island of Funen upriver from Langeland, Ærø and Tåsinge, Møller-Mærsk Fyn opens a letter from Valdemar the Victorious (Valdemar Sejr) announcing the investiture of Walpurgis Night, to be followed the next day by national Flag Day, a day of highfaluting rejoicing. ‘--but where will we ever find enough whore’s gloves to appease the throngs?’ said the second assistant to the first assistant. ‘--I’ve heard say of a place beyond the Ærø across the Tåsinge where a man can buy as many whore’s gloves as his heart commands…’ said the first assistant to the second and third. ‘--Vincennes…’. ‘--Vincennes, yes I recall the name’ added the third assistant, the second and first assistants beside themselves with joy.
Gloving and whoring found their meter in the early Dark Ages, a time of low-culture and swank haberdashery. A time when Lux Ex Orient rang throughout the land, summoning the Teutonic Knights to the knee of Pope Gregory IX, Inquisititor, whereupon he cautions them ‘be wary of tomfools and heretics’, sidesaddle to Pope Gregory IX Pope Innocent IV, his face red as fresh meat, requests Isabella’s fair hand in dance, Pope Sixtus IV arriving by landau, his Chantilly frayed and torn, demanding of Lucas de Tuy ‘as we speak the Moorish are convening… get thy shoulder beneath the wheel, I command you be fleet and unnerved… now get moving we have no time to waste’, his booming command catching the ear of Torquemada Pope Paul III, his Miter tippling on the tonsure of his head, who decrees in a deep Bassano voice ‘Galileo, who you will find on page 27½ of the Liborurm Prohibitorum, is a crackpot, a heretic… I demand that you set his telescope on fire!’… and off in the far to middling distance, his threadworn surplice gathered round his shoulders, Giordano Bruno, pale and ashen, sits in the sanctum dais playing pinochle with two monks and an ass.
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