Recently I had a very clever idea to respond to a fellow Dubuqeans' sardonic appeal to monkey murder. Much more recently, I decided to read it to you. The fellow's main thrust was to manipulate via murder the byproduct of that uncomfortable deduction one derives on the subject of Artistry in light of the math problem that factors as quotients 1) infiniteness and applies to it 2) chaos, and 3) within that chaos and infiniteness, allots infinite time, the obvious infinite number of monkeys chained together, and the infinite number of monkeys infinitely typing at the equally infinite number of typewriters. This, of course, causes everyone to realize: that with infinite probability and infinite time, all art that calls itself unique and creative in fact will be duplicated exactly, and, thus, is not in fact uniquely creative at all. This sort of answer to the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness, in his opinion, necessitated a writers' brood, a burning of his pages, and a very solemn several day drunk after which I can only assume, saber in hand, he'd set out to that infinitely full room and spend eternity slaying the writer's of the not so creative now-secret works of Salinger, Shakespear, and Nancy Drew.

To all of this I applied my own brood, during and after which I choose to respond in kind with G.K Chesterton's, "The Man who was Thursday," who says in the opening pages, that artistry and the art of the dialectic does not find its resonance nor truth in kind with the fiendish anarchist throwing bombs and instigating chaos, but in the boarding of a train set to arrive at Victoria which does arrive at Victoria indeed victoriously as art, as the expression, nay, the cry of a herald announcing the conquest of Adam to those who wait on the benches of that great station awaiting the arrival of such a train.

And so I say, in light of the chaos, in light of the infiniteness, in light of those things to which the sensible and practical existentialist ignores, in light of the fact that you are here and now and not in an infinitely sized netherroom made up by the irrational impractical concept of quantum physicistry, it light of these friend, let the monkey's live, let their droning ticking din on infinitely there in that infinitely worthless, infinitely silent, non-Victoria to your context. That place, those monkeys, they are out of context. Savants they are not, they bang on daily and hourly, furry fingers bleeding on to the bone, elbow and shoulder; yet in ignorance to their chaos, they write going on into nowhere, set out toward nowhere from the beginning, arriving eventually at maybe your Victoria, but most probably anywhere else, most probably Baghdad, Aiwa St, or Portugal. Though if they did arrive at Victoria, it would be the same to them as the other destinations, nothing, nothing, nothing, Victoria, Victoria, Victoria; and, on they would type, type, type, infinitely.

And what of it, what of this to us, supposed artists. Shall we bleed the monkeys infinitely out to fill that room to fill our pride to the opposite extent that it meant to them to arrive at nothing nothing nothing, Victoria, Victoria, Victoria; or, shall we spare them to the concept they are, as producers of chaotic possibilities bound to infiniteness, and allow ourselves joy in the gracious use of choice in our intentional creations constructed under the use of a real freedom we do possess in the here and now to give to a real audience in the basement of a smoky bar, the tiny link in the internet nether, or the tired hand of another publisits shaking his bored head and mouthing crap, crap, crap?