As a worker bee, moue-mouthed, doth leak reluctant nectar from a darkling sylvan bloom, so we, enchained logophiles, with parched and pursed lips do suck upon laborious simile, unmasking cryptic quandaries, and with Herculean precaution negotiate at best a warily parsimonious cohabitation of beached mutineers.
Bewigged, bothered and bewildered, Kapellmeister Bach evinced some disquietude when, all unannounced, Anna Magdalena flounced into his study only to disport herself by gaily snatching from his hand the freshly-inked last sheet from the 'Art of Fugue' before coquettishly rolling it up as a makeshift spill to light the tapers, thereby vitiating somewhat his sense of marital harmony.
Enthralled, beguiled, and enslaved by an all-consuming logophilia, the ghastly creature had of late grown indifferent and unresponsive to castigation or approbation, to formal censure or commendation, to denunciation or panegyric, consecrating his remaining closeted years to the private preparation of a reductive, grotesquely primped and purged thesaurus, one synonym ruthlessly supplanting another - one interchangeable word its likeness, one analogue its kissing cousin - as he strove indefatigably to articulate, express, and impart the full enormity of his profound failure to communicate other than "through weasel words" - which last verbosity he amended (after agonised deliberation) to "equivocally".
Loth to appear o'ersoon at the Red Mill (kick-off was not until eight o' the clock), and availing ourselves of the rare opportunity for a leisurely interdigitated crepuscular stroll past the brave demimondegreenaines who - so Holmes instructed me - kept the streets blessedly free of vice and depravity; and having cunningly disguised ourselves as two fictive English chums in search of a good lay, the ace sleuth suddenly drew me to one side (in a becoming silverpoint three-quarter profile) and libidinously remarked 'Look - lay - fully bare - share?', to which I stuffily riposted 'I'm a married man, Holmes, she's all yours', and to which he impatiently snarled 'No, you ignoramus, Les Folies Bergère', at that very moment fortuitously espying a crumpled Annie Oakley lodged in the vertiginously crevassed décolletage of a festering, toothless, madame who, in return for relieving her of a few jaundiced parsnips from a decaying tumbril, grudgingly yielded up the aforesaid billet, which bore only the curious motto 'M+1' . . . at which Holmes immediately declared, as was his wont, 'a low trick, and we must attempt la recherche du temps perdu,' clearly divining in a trice that not Lautrec, Toulouse but Mucha, Alphonse had earlier been intended by the devious Moriarty, and that the singular alphabetic additive could mean only 'Nucha' - on concluding which astounding deduction, Holmes pontificated, as he strode purposefully across the Pont du Change: 'This colubrine exposition, growing ever more Proustian, Watson, demands timous surcease, and we must accordingly, if a trifle nostalgically, put a reluctant stop to it; but not before I ingest (being, as you must know by now, a cunning linguist) this tasty "petite madelaine", moulded in the hoity-toity flutey-wootey scallopy-wallopy of a pilgrim's shell'; and on taking it oh so delicately between his comely lips he was given to communicate, unrestrainedly bespawling me: 'Moriarty, you see, is telegraphing that he has me by the scruff of the neck, but' - and here he choked and would have surely expired in my close embrace had I not speedily rumbled him.
When I reproached the comptroller of petty cash for his stiff-necked attitude in rejecting my very modest travel expenses he strongly denied nuchal rigidity, lamented my profligacy, and implored me to eschew use of public transport while I still had use of shanks' pony.
Over a steamy weekend on the good ship Twerewell we managed (Miss America and I) to down a methuselah's-worth of the best plonk, and in my heightened state of bacchic arousal I was hardly affronted nor in the least distrait that she thought fit to proposition me in full nakedness, uninhibitedly disporting herself fore and aft, licensing my roving hands and letting them go before, behind, between, aloft, and alow - and all in the best possible taste!
It's dark, it's late, and it's raining buckets, so I put on a quick burst of speed and and have just skipped the lights when old Policeman Plod looms out of the shadows like Harry Lime, giving me such a start that I fall off the bloody bike and graze my knee; but instead of cradling me in his arms and applying vulnerary balm what does the bastard do but he comes over all sanctimonious like, preaching on and on about safety and road discipline, disputing my avowed daltonism, and informing me that I have committed a very serious pecuniary offence - at which point I really lose my rag and smack him one . . . so that didn't help any.
I was pissed as a newt So I said 'Cheers, old fruit, Must get back to the trouble and strife'; Well she heard me arrive As I rolled up the drive And was there at the door with a knife (On my life!) . . . I said 'Greetings, my dear, I'm not pissed have no fear, Let us join in a chirpy aubade'; But the song that she knew Fairly curdled the dew Causing me to retreat, yet unscarred (Breathing hard!) . . . Then with vile imprecation She woke up the nation And swore that she'd see me in hell Before sharing her bed With a lousy dickhead, For she wasn't best pleased, I could tell (Ritournelle!) . . . I said 'No more of that You seductive old bat', But elicited nought but a sign That my claim on her frame Set her parts all aflame - So I broke through her Maginot line (That's her shrine!).
This beefy John Bull gamekeeper-type, riding precarious shotgun on the back of a lurching, clapped-out Land Rover, hoves into view bawling 'You can't yomp across His Lordship's grounds like that, you're trespassing!', and I answer him with consummate gelidity, 'It's my £5 entrance fee to this decaying pile of purloined privilege that keeps you in employ, bumpkin, so I'll go where I choose'; but whether or not he heard my reply I don't know, because at that moment he lost his grip and plunged headlong into a steaming cowpat - so his bluster somehow just evanesced.
"Quick, look there, Watson, at that Annie Oakley half bespawled by spindrift from the Hokusai-sastrugi, did the ticket, or pass, or whatever it is, not flutter out from the tatterdemalion lederhosen of Scholmo the feeble funambulist as he achieved his precipitate descent from the funicular? - why, it bears only the letter 'M', and surely (unless I am suffering from premature calculation) it is in the cultivated roundhand of my bitterest foe, Professor Moriarty, and so can only stand as a challenge to my famous deductive powers, constituting a veritable down-throwing of the Satanic gauntlet; so, let me see - 'M'? - could it intend my favourite fictional urchin Mowgli, the feral child raised by the jungle wolves of Kipling's Raj? - or can it be - yes it can, I have it! - the devil is playing with me most contemptuously, Watson, for it stands for none other than that curious neologism 'mondegreen', as yet unknown, and ergo undefinable save for my noetic clairvoyance; but his toying with me, Watson, is quite absurd, quite futile, for at this tipping point in my scientific sleuthdom I am (am I not?) always given to exclaiming: 'A low trick, and no time to lose', and Moriarty well knows that an arrant fool like yourself Watson always mishears that as 'A Lautrec, and no time, Toulouse' - so we must away to Paris and (I regret) to the Moulin Rouge to seek out those interdigitated vestal girlies as, beneath the windmill's arrested sails, they are compelled to kick high and cantillate 'Yes, we can-can', while the stunted dauber ogles their luscious, whitely-pulsating thighs etcetera from far below, the blackguard!"
Old Ma Jotter's manifest penchant for sedition was at last formally certificated upon her being discovered covertly distributing free ballpoint pens among her septuagenarian coevals in Mr. Smudge's engrossing roundhand and copperplate calligraphy circle.
"O.K., Agenda Item 1, the President's gauche allusions to Wall Street's supposed collusions and delusions . . . now let's have no illusions, guys, Obama's upstart views are uncalled for and downright sinister - no, Counterfeit Joe, I don't mean that he's left-handed, and what do I care if his round hand uncial is irredeemably atrocious? - so what I say is this: we turn on the contrition, we roll over and make all mansuetudinous like, and then - wait for it - we carry on just as rapacious as before . . . which reminds me, everyone else happy with their bonuses? - great, so am I, cheers."
I was just ushering her into the bedroom when the frigid bitch turns round and tells me all sex is off - ganz verboten - and then delivers an interminable harangue about how a morganatic marriage really isn't what she has in mind, and if all I want is a whore-hagiographer to document my descent into senility then I can find another sucker to sign a yellow-dog contract.
Tra la la la la la la la / La! / You should see me dance the maxixe / In the braw Brazilian sun / As I prance on the bier / Of my ancestor drear / And machinate heliolatrous fun!
At the liquid levee held in honour of my bedraggled arrival, a court flunkey (a born martinet) stipulated that I must twice circumnavigate the pool before being presented to His Most Glorious Mud-Wallowing Panjandrum - who then proceeded to yawn largely while advising me that just as the Houyhnhnms despised the Yahoos, so his artiodactylic pod (a tribe calling itself the Qdrvllqndrrys) loathed the Houyhnhnms, for the very obvious reason that their pedal extremities were obnoxious, i.e., not evenly furcated.
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