"Addle-pated Plengthathaur", read the summons. "What Ghatsleighsdottir had in mind is beyond me" muttered Al Cid. "A murder of crows, indeed, what frippery" replied Yalladar. "The accident is particulate" I said. "The ribald conchsquery is disordered", I replied. Uldbane, the Martindale of Suffolkses, looked at me with her fourth eye, and winked, and spoke: "It was the fifth year of the campaign. Rigsby and Blermontale had all but resigned possession of the Cupcake of God. The Blortissium of Wulg had occupied the inner sanctum of the Furuncle-Fleas, much to the resentment of Aspartame of Norfolk, hey, are you listening to me. Take your peanut butter out of your ear, this is important."
I was distracted. Weren't you?
I was distracted. Weren't you?
No comments:
Post a Comment