Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/I/IMPURE.TXT

Text File | 1991-02-22 | 3.8 KB | 83 lines

impure.txt

IMPURE MATHEMATICS

Once upon a time (1/T) pretty little Polly Nomial was strolling across a
field of vectors when she came to the boundary of a singularly large matrix.

Now Polly was convergent, and her mother had made it an absolute condition
that she never enter such an array without her brackets on.  Polly, however,
who had changed her variables that morning and was feeling particularly
badly behaved, ignored this condition on the basis that it was insufficient
and made her way in amongst the complex elements.

Rows and columns closed in on her from all sides.  Tangents approached her
surface.  She became tensor and tensor.  Quite suddenly, two branches of a
hyperbola touched her at a single point.  She oscillated violently, lost all
sense of directrix, and went completely divergent.  As she reached a turning
point, she tripped over a square root that was protruding from the erf and
plunged headlong down a steep gradient.  When she rounded off once more, she
found herself inverted, apparently alone, in a non-euclidean space.

She was being watched, however.  That smooth operator, Curly Pi, was lurking
inner product.  As his eyes devoured her curvilinear coordinates, a singular
expression crossed his face.  He wondered, was she still convergent?  He
decided to integrate improperly at once.

Hearing a common fraction behind her, Polly rotated and saw Curly Pi approach-
ing with his power series extrapolated.  She could see at once by his degen-
erate conic and dissipative terms that he was bent on no good.

"Arcsin!" she gasped.

"Ho, ho," he said.  "What a symmetric little asymptote you have.   I can see
that your angles have a lot of secs."

"Oh, sir," she protested, "keep away from me.  I haven't got my brackets on."

"Calm yourself, my dear," said our suave operator.  "Your fears are purely
imaginary."

"I, I," she thought. "Perhaps he's not normal by homologous."

"What order are you?" the brute demanded.

"Seventeen," replied Polly.

Curly leered.  "I suppose you've never been operated on?"

"Of course not," Polly replied quite properly.  "I'm absolutely
convergent."

"Come, come," said Curly.  "Let's go off to a decimal place I know and I'll
take you to the limit."

"Never!" gasped Polly.

"Abscissa!" he swore, using the vilest oath he knew.  His patience was gone.
Coshing her over the coefficient with a log until she was powerless, Curly
removed her discontinuities.  He stared at her significant places and began
smoothing her points of inflection.  Poor, poor Polly.  The algorithmic method
was now her only hope.  She felt his hand tending to her asymptotic limit. Her
convergence would soon be gone forever.

There was no mercy, for Curly was a heavyside operator.   Curly's radius
squared itself; Polly's loci quivered.  He integrated by parts.  He integrated
by partial fractions.  After he cofactored, he performed Runge-Kutta on her.
The complex beast even went all the way around and did a contour integration.
Curly went on operating until he had satisified her hypothesis; then he
exponentiated and became completely orthogonal.

When Polly came home that night, her mother noticed that she was no longer
piece-wise continuous, but had been truncated in several places.  But it was
too late to differentiate now.  As the months went by Polly's denominator
increased monotonically.  Finally, she went to L'Hospital and generated a
small but pathological function which left surds all of the place and drove
Polly to deviation.

The moral of the sad story is: "If you want to keep your expressions
convergent, never allow them a single degree of freedom!"

                               -- Aunty Derivative