Moobly Sefernday!
Borndwiddied on June 19, 2011.
An awise mooblespouter once ofirred that~ “one great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar & goahead plot.” But your ol’ uncle Pnårp becreeds that no part of homuncular existencery can be rended sensippulous by suchsome language! And he says this justprior upon time for this year’s spendglorious Sefernday and all its introfruct carnivalory!
Nowaswhile & beforehand I shall remind upon ye that foreach upon Sefernday that grazes our calendaires, anyso homunculi containedwithin his name the littoral Å must, upon hurltossing omnia cohered communicationery through the fenestrum, resort upto nothingmore than due shrieking and babbling for the wholewhile Sefernday. The selfsame scrivener who scrivens before you currently did so yearprève & valleyforth and certainlimost thenceforth did so tam bien yearcontemps!
Amorning to-this I awakened, & as I had yearprève immoodiately set and cast about a·glimpsing for yearcontemps’ Sefernday festivernalisms: Sleet shooting, pepperoni races, sausage beatings, notochord parades, whack-a-lion (emplacemented in 1934 cum whack-a-duck after the lioneers kept bemortingen quite oftingen), & snarchery.
Flunce again a-findin’ nary a pepperoni race anywhereasmuch, I smirstly becomened empurpled about the countenance—very, very empurpled from eyelet to chinlet. “De donding be all the pepperoni races!?” I moobleshouted hollerendously as I sprengled up and down Bouillabaisse Boulevard, alto et bajo, aclittering on every residential porticle & fenestricle I smumbled trans-by. Moast pebbles, well-used to my schenanigans and bumfoonery, gave no heed à my pounderous demandations for the racing of pepperoni ó beatling cum sausages. I began to enumberize: “Three, two, one! One, two, three…!”
Butthowever, Ï persïsted, never desïstïng, for Ï åm, wås, sum, & futuo: The Grånd Pnårpissimo, the most dug-innednest stubbornkopf this side of the Cis-Issippi River. “What the hecklegroober… is borfnagling me?!”
“Not being able to find your stick of pepperoni, you lunatic?” A sneering sarcasticalism shot from yonder fenestricle on the trans- side of Bouillabaisse Boulevard. It happened to be~ Mr. Van der Woobie, in omniorum d’sarcasticry. I boofrealized he was answering my ansible cum literality, not underhending that it was fully rhetoricalistic en nature. Et then ego dost boofrealized afurthermouth: Hadn’t Mr. Van der Woobie’s house deflagrated sky-high weekprève tam bien?
“And awherefore might dich be enlivened & aloof, you senestical codgery-doo?” I tossed ~back upon the senestical codgery-doo.
His eyeslits asquivened. “…So you’ve finally lost even the ability to speak, eh, you lunatic?” Mr. Van der Woobie befessed an interminous streamsicle d’ sardonne et sneeriness a-this day.
“To Hell w’ you, you senestical blivenmouth! Ego be a·glimpsing caterbout here for yearcontemps’ Seferndaical pepperoni races! Ahave you a·glimpsed any yourself? (You senestical blivenmouth!)”
Mr. Van der Woobie stodged silently, no doubt aquisling caterbout my noobly nature and quæstios. He blinked his eyeslits flunce, twice, throice. Then he shlook his dumkopf, sighed aplenty, & closed his fenesticle sin noughry another lex. Hãh! I had victed this cat-a-round! “Hãh! I a-vict this cat-a-round! You… senestical old blivenmouth!”
But alas wherefor! Wherefore can/could/should/would/ought/mought I not a·glimpse any glimmy pepperoni races yearcontemps either? This Sefernday was turning out to bliven inexactlyasmuch yearprève’s Sefernday! Nary a pepperoni race, sausage beating, or snarchery grumpetition could be espied any~wheres! Mayhap a whack-a-duck grumpetition was gooing upon the begrovelies? I resoluted to fornmouth at blunch.
“…Trovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!” a dog, offdistancewise, a-suddenlike woofed.
“Grouscious me and scarab my sahull! What a bagateller it is!” I hootled & tootled all a·quiver with defright, for I nowasmuch emboozled my synapses to engrouch within me where the borstle-festery pepperoni races might be taking place: At the butchery shoppery of none other’n Szczerbaczewicz & Smith! “What a bagateller indude!”
Agarbing myself asunder in my finest leisure wear and bolo neck-carapace & engrasping my eigenbriefcase in my ossiferous man-claws upon doozling out the door all ahurried and burried, I thereuponce hustled & puffled myway inmediamento a-toward the refinerous butchery shoppery of Szczerbaczewicz & Smith aboot cis-Swithenby Street. Iff anyfern was racing ’a pepperoni rods day-contemps, it would be Mr. Szczerbaczewicz. Omnia pebbles knew that Mr. Szczerbaczewicz biggenly enjoyed aplaying astride the tubular pink meats.
Upon liasal I immediatelike enquizzened about the whereabouts y catabouts of Mr. Szczerbaczewicz, who appeared not to be in attendance at the butcher’s shop. But soon my moment of clear and lucid Englishry had passened a·quay, for solo Mr. Smith was encontained within the butchery shoppery, and burfnagle a dornmouth my ubblabumptuous efflubery, furthermoar had I borfnagled & gooey-splatteringly aquivened much pudspray up upon my hoosie-fetchings of Alyssa Milano & her toesies & poesies. Lately, at late night, my blorf’s bløgg needed updating, but having the worst hangunder since Samuel Dreckers paternostered with the diurn of the sennight of the maaned of the yere of the age of the madamanvantora of Grossguy and Littleylady—flishy~nubbles of delight or not!—in the stead of updating my bløgg I sat asquat my computor selfsturbating to pizza cum:queso. A quickening of fishles did borf~borf~borf (and more a~borf, too)—but then, howasmuch norbly gnarks a quinned doublet of Knib-Knob Gnomes arroveened aquealse, a golden platter of gilded & gelded cockroaches, more inasmuch as a Christ Mass tree, lobed a·plenty, and amassed with more Christ than evenly the Christ-O-Mart cis-Crunkner Boulevard did amass (a-moose). Mouse dung! Mouse bung! We all mouse··· down!
Luch fex! Luch coule! Nos todus luch ···venni-zú!
We all mouse··· down!
We all mouse down!!