Writing a ficly should be considered an art form. Sort of like mashing potatos, or tenderizing meat.

It seems like a lot of uncontrolled beating and smashing. But in effect it takes a real art to get just that particular lump of solid potato, or pound that rough looking gristle until it’s juicy and sweet, ready to be crisped and charred in the grill.

So when you see these words minced and diced on the screen like coleslaw and chop suey—step back, glare a little (because it’s always a good artistic pose to glare while making deep artsy analyses), step back a moment. If you can, circle around the laptop or screen (you need to get a good look at it from all angles) and then “hmmm” and stroke your chin. Or beard. It works much better if you’ve a beard. Well, unless you’re a woman. But then again…

And, once you’ve done all that. Considered every single verb, adjective, noun, whatever from past, present, future and omniscient. You can look at this small peice of text and say.

“Wow. Totally meaningless.”