The Reality-Based Community

riverrun, past the tip of the paddle-box, from swerve of shore a little piece, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to the widow and be respectable. Rot a peck of pap's malt had Miss Watson’s Jhem. Dauphin Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette, had passencore fetched us to Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was what we was after, to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor had tomsawyer's rocks by the up-stream, so far off towards the other side, exaggerated themselse while they went sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping. You'd see the axe flash and come down -- you don't hear nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it's above the man's humptyhillhead then you hear the bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!

Nicely done.

I haven't checked this blog in awhile, so I may have missed. Did anyone mention Philip Jose Farmer's published portmatomes and pastiches:

* The Jungle Rot Kid on the Nod (if William Burroughs had written the works of Edgar Rice).

* Winnegan's Fake (with Joycean chapter headings).

* Venus on the Half-Shell (using as a pseudonym the name of a character from Kurt Vonnegut who supposedly wrote a novel of the same name).

These may not fill the requirements exactly, but seem to follow the idea in spirit.

Danger: Pedantic note follows...

Finnegans Wake has no apostrophe.

You were warned.