An experiment - part 1

Given the impressive accuracy of Google Bot in matching the ads on the right of this page with the content of the blog entries we thought we'd try a little experiment. I am going to sound a little confused in a moment. Some might even venture, like a lunatic. But there be method in this madness. We want to see what sort of ads pop up on the page if we include some unusual phrases in the body copy. The leprechauns who live at the bottom of the garden pressed their noses to the glass and began cooing over the Christmas tree. Sartre sat smoking, wondering if Pierre had ever turned up at the cafe and, if he was honest with himself, ruing the day that the fecker had left Jean Paul waiting and set him off on his whole being and nothingness trip. He'd smoked three packets of cigarettes that day. His chest hurt at the memory. His mouth was dry.  His head hurt. The pain was worse than when he bit into ice cream. Though not having brushed his teeth for who knows how long  was taking care of that. And the mescaline of course. Those beautiful mescaline moments. Antique horse brasses. Sailing holidays. Carbon fibre racing bikes at discount prices. He'd had many a strange and beautiful experience with Madame Mescaline. The leprechauns had steamed the glass with their hot breath. Sartre poured himself another brandy and held the glass halfway between the table and his mouth, halfway between being and nothingness. He stared into the empty space in front of him. Space like an empty office block available on a short term lease and ideal for a small or medium size enterprise. The phone rang. Pierre? Apologising for not turning up at the cafe, after all these years? He let it ring. The silence. The ringing still echoing in his ears. Present through its absence. Being and nothingness. L'etre et Nuit. Outside snow began to fall. Christmas card snow, thick and fluffy. The leprechauns stood upright and tugged on collars, pulled down hats and blew into tiny frozen hands. Sartre stood up without looking in their direction. He walked over to the bureau and picked up the green bottle that sat half empty on top of it, extending his arm to turn the key in the patio doors before he pulled the cork from the bottle.

"It would seem Pierre cannot make it today," Said Sartre, arranging several glasses in a row now. "Will you not come in from the cold and celebrate Christmas with me? One should never drink absinthe alone."