Dits and Dots and Polyglots

Yes, this is a cryptographic. It isn't every day I have the luxury of disassembling what, on the surface, may appear to be a statement of horror and despair at one or more of my monologues. While the true intent of a phrase such as "I wanted to claw my eyes out" is relatively obvious, there are other ways of saying the same thing that call for a rigorous, systemic analysis of the entire can of worms. This is of particular importance where brainy psychologists are doing the phrasing, because if there's one thing you don't want to take responsibility for, it's a brainy psychologist with clawed-out eyes.

Below, please find an actual, unretouched metamessage from a dear someone who recently blundered into the writing project commonly referred to as Omegaword. I don't think the writer was turned into a pillar of salt, because salt pillars lack the faculties required to send email.

"I just read through some of your compositions............ummm wow."

At first, I dismissed the dot trail as the predictable result of a household pet nesting on the keyboard, but closer inspection suggested a more deliberate intent, not unlike what one might expect to hear from the speaker of a shortwave receiver tuned to a maritime frequency, where the dits and dahs of a bygone era form the foregone conclusions of effective long-distance communication. As I knelt to count the dots, years of cryptographic analyses allowed me to make mincemeat of the cipher, thus exposing the true underbelly of its intent.

By itself, the letter S is certainly nothing to sneeze at, but multiplied by twelve it becomes the executive expression of a dozen, which is exactly the sort of quantity favored by those who make donuts for the folks at SETI. As you will recall, the speed of light imposes harsh sanctions on space-travelling objects, so a dozen donuts feels like a snack by the time the message pulls into the driveway here on planet Earth. Divided by three, the twelve become four groups of dits, which is to say, the letter S repeated four times in order to form the sound of air escaping from Mr. Morse's bicycle tire.

Having thus put the metamessage's preamble in its proper place, I was ready to move on to the second third of the puzzle. This is where years of cryptographic analyses make no difference whatsoever, because if there's one thing they never taught us in grammar school, it's the proper pronunciation of the triple-m configuration when a vowel is blocking the rear exit. A dozen donuts later, I didn't care about this segment of the puzzle anymore.

Arriving at the third third, I immediately recognized the upside downity of the classic inversion scheme used by Nostradamus to obstruct the view. In any case, it's plain that the last word in the metamessage is simply standing on its head. Mom used to do that, too, when she wanted a donut.


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