I had a strange and troubling dream last night. I dreamt I was present (but out of sight) at an emergency meeting of the 1954 Club, that shadowy sodality dedicated to the worship and sanctity of the holy screed known only as The Definition. Chairman Richard Bridge called the meeting to order with a peremptory crack of his gavel on a bust of Cecil Sharp.
"Emergency meeting now in session," he intoned gravely. "Tonight's business: we gotta do something about this guy Blandiver. For years now under a range of implausible cognomens he's poured scorn on everything we hold to be inviolable and beyond refutation. We've sent the big guns in – Carroll, Gardham, Peters – but they just can't get a bead on him. What to do? It's time for the Final Solution…"
The sanguine faces around the table turned waxen at these words.
"You mean…?" croaked one.
"Yes," spat Bridge. "—The Prof. "
A shudder of nameless dread ran round the table.
"There is no alternative. He's the only guy with the guts to insist on a rigidly literal interpretation of Blandiver's every utterance. It's the only way — pure, lethal pedantry. It never fails."
"B..but…" stammered another, "it's never been done before on Mudcat. It could (gulp) destroy civilized discourse forever."
"That's a risk we gotta take," growled Bridge. "All in favour…?"
At that point I awoke, relieved that if was only a dream. Then I logged onto Mudcat…