Bill stared at his keyboard, trying to decide whether he could really devolve a hiatus and enter a bad writing contest, knowing that his usual eloquent prosody was hard to avoid, except by resorting to the sort of vacillating stream-of-conciousness that was usually construed by less discerning readers as emanating from inferior brains, and which, compared to his (Bill's) illustrious creativity, would neither evoke remonstrations of hilarity at his erudite contortions of nomenclature nor draw the casual peruser of such creativity into any seriously contemplative consideration: even with...or especially with, so many better examples of worseness preceding his pre-emptive attempt to demonstrate how flagrantly muddled it was to truly, in this day and age of practically universal weakness of literary construction, be able to express the essential miasma which delineates the required depths of ...you know... presumptuous verbosity necessary to even raise the eyebrows on the literary critic at the New York Times - much less the masses who congregate at Mudcat's barely reputable forum - so he assigned the task to his altered ego which, when released and not monitored closely, can be counted on to turn out turgid crap like this.