Wordplay with Excessively Long Sentences

I wrote this last time: “Cloax, the very person who had suggested the ball to be made of white chocolate in the beginning, and was considerably saddened by not having his idea realized, insisted that these inhabitants be made out of white chocolate, an idea which was considered quite excellent for two reasons: firstly, the chocolate would be completely unrecognizable after all the spells, enchantments, and bites had been made on it; and secondly, Cloax insisted that, were any other material be used for making the creatures, he would go jump off their building used for debates, a highly unpreferable outcome, because they wished to preserve the building.”

I dunno if that has one hundred words. Looks like it. There aren’t even that many conjunctions. It’s all clauses and clauses, so you can’t really say it’s a run-on.

Not really.

Let’s try to best it.

I, being a weak, irresponsible blogger, feel that my blog, currently a terrible mess of murderously, unintelligibly convoluted posts that insult human intelligence and possibly primal intelligence as well, needs some reform, the kind that is positive, well-documented, and public-domain as well as being just plain totally awesome, even though, obviously and trivially, I am not, as any reader of this post should know, because the readers of this post do not, after all, exist, in any kind of a remotely suitable position for this reform, so to speak, and it is for no reason other than this one that I offer my readers, which, as above stated, form this curious, ambiguous empty-or-not set that can easily be philosophically debated about for milleniums on end without having either party suddenly realizing that they died of heart failure nine hundred and ninety-nine years ago, the deepest condolences, whatever that means, and I earnestly do hope I know what it means, even though I think that I think that I know the precise definition, in which the only problem is just how certain I am of my certainty that the word does, in fact, mean what I think it means, or perhaps what I think I think what it means, from the bottomest, figuratively speaking, part, if you could call it that, of my heart, which is still pumping along at quite a nice speed, unless you’re reading this thousands of years from now, which is obviously impossible, unless, and at this thought I feel all rejuvenated, I become famous, which would quite be nice, and an interesting prospective to consider in the safety and familiarness of my computer room, or maybe, you are me, which reminds me of this science fiction story where the main person wakes up to find himself in this female body in a hospital where the doctors inform him that he, that is to say, she, was brain dead or something for nineteen years, and lots of things happen, and he and she split at the end, which is a little hard to explain here because of the completely enormous length of this stupid little sentence, which is supposed to explain only one fact at a time but in fact bifurcates about dozens of times, leaving in its wake an exponential number of facts strewn about like little rag dolls in the street after a typhoon and a tsunami have finally, after years and years of prevention and straggling and haggling and lots of other things, caused Armaggedon, however you wish to spell that word, to come, and it also wants to thank you for reading through this sentence, which, I am positively certain, nobody will finish.

That was pretty fun, to be honest.

EDIT: Well, well, well. AoPS had a topic on this. Unfortunately not enough people liked it. Fail. But I didn’t start it.


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