Many books have been purported to be hard, weird, occult, unusual, extraneous, strange, bizarre, or downright inconfuntabulable. I once knew an author who would, with the razor blades he stored in his mustache, carve into a nice pork and apple dinner with a shit-blood sauce hidden messages of what he called “the book of life and the story of tomorrow and the wheel of life” and which he was certain, once he fed it to the members of the Nobel Literature Committee, would ensure his status as a first rate poet and give him the laurels. Instead he gave them all dysentery and they died. In a way this is representative of those that snub Finnegans Wake. Some base their opposition off of a recalcitrant anti-intellectualism, others on the grounds that they do not have time, and others because they mistakenly have confused James Joyce with George W. Bush and blame him for creating the Iraq War. They are all equally mistaken, and probably suffer from erectile dysfunction, let me explain.

Having spent the last three years breaking into the houses and crypts of critics of Finnegan’s Wake I have noticed an uncanny similarity. Many of them were unable to get erections while I stood over them wearing a homer simpson mask and screamed (which is, as well all know, the most arousing possible situation on earth) and some even seemed to have craterous holes in the place of where their penis would be. Clearly the opponents to Finnegans Wake are the scheming eunuchs from the Dhong Dynasty of Indo-China who are attempting to undermine the glorious nation of Ireland which, in its connubial connational countlickable conunion with Khazakstan, home of famous white boy and chicken sauce enjoyer Eminem, has been controlling the nation via its literary exports since the invention of Coca-Cola, secretly a chinese product stolen and smuggled out of Sino-Tibet through the bunghole of Mr. James Joyce, who used its psychedelic powers to produce the wake, which is literally the worlds first goldencalfinated shitpost. If Mr. Joyce were still on earth today rather than in the hamptons, which everyone knows are located with our Lord and Savior Bashar Al-Assad in Agartha next to the living dinosaurs and the Autism Vaccine, he would probably be an avid 4-Chan user, and have developed a fixation on Eurasian Blue Tits, a genre of Bird not unlike Seinfeld in the fact that it was implicated in the planning and execution of 9/11.

In this essay I will undermine the foundations of western philosophy and ontology in order to get a churro. If I do not receive the churro I will not give back human intellects *a priori* assumptions that enable cognition and will instead sell them to a random turkish man who sells rocks behind a bodega in queen. This time I am excited for the chance to purchase calcite, as I believe it is an incredibly neglected rock, and am planning to write a thesis on it in contraconflictoconoppo- distinction to Freidrich Nietzshce’s *On The Geology of Morals* which, as everyone in the kanow kanows, calmpleadly icknores the influences of sedimentialism and the metamorfolkism of indiginthis cultures in faithor of fogusting his blowhardian exhailations entiredly on poo pooing and pee peeing anything, by dint of his negligence and inexcusable inconsideration, on the effects of ickniest rocks which he, due to his preverence for the whyarewe and the diseased, detestable flu’s id of the floozy, loose, and sloperific, igschnores in his analieshit of morrels, thus leafing mushroom for wrecktification!

The True Toldtality of Sinnagan's Wait!