Exhilarated but exhausted after his New Year's Eve moonlit skinny-dip in the freezing Groudle of Lhen Coan, Professor Janusz Verzweiflungcki (a former internee, not a native Manxman) was hauled up, trembling and dripping, on to the river bank by an importuning qualtagh, but - never one to forego a captive audience - blindfolded, gagged and bound the abject peon niftily hand and foot before lugging him home to be the sullen beneficiary of (a) sight of a stale bonnag and (b) an impassioned and inexorable expatiation on the finer points of Haydn's Sturm und Drang style (with special reference to Hoboken XVI/20) - much to the qualtagh's immobile fury, for he had been keenly anticipating this sado-masochistic groundhog fest - ordained to comprise (as ever) the annual leisurely explication of 'Bebung' in C.P.E.Bach's fantasias for five-octave unfretted clavichord . . . and so, once untrussed, was minded to excoriate the Professor for his unscheduled departure from the norm - the utter liberty!
According to the predictions of Nostradamus, an unusually prosperous 2010 will be ushered in by an overweening three-legged qualtagh arriving on an overhyped two-bit toboggan attended by an array of overbearing supernal beings - that's the hauteur theory, anyway.
"Now start flapping, lad," shouted Daedalus, launching the fat little fellow, whose burgeoning comprehension involuntarily flew to embrace the concept of acrophobia; "them wings are chiliastic, should last you years and years and years and . . . " he waxed confidently and ever more faintly; but Icarus awarded him minus points for quality-control as, proximately sun-kissed, he began to moult heavily, plummeting to earth while, en passant, execrating both his dad's elevated hubris and his own imminently malleable embonpoint.
Whereas, in golden youth, he had proved himself a lion among literati, now in sere old age his lambent wit hardly flickered, his malleable mind calcified, his discourse reduced to mumbling onomatomania as he unobtrusively withdrew from company, mouthing despondently 'quad? . . . quan? . . . quad? . . . quan?'.
"Arrrr, ho, ho, ho, pal," rumbled a rebarbative, indigent sidewalk Santa, ruddy-breasted, clinquant-clad, stupendously Brahms 'n' Liszt, obstructively and unseasonably cudgeling alms while heedlessly triggering both my astraphobia and my ineluctable r-ho-pal-icit-udina-rianis-trixity*; whereupon I felt impelled to respond in kind with a robust if ironically unfestive 'Go two, thou bawdy rascal, vamoose, rubicund ---' correctly surmising that the single transgressive homonymic makeshift might elude his lexical scrutiny; but, e'en before I had wit enow to formulate this cerebration, eftsoons he hailed me, spewing bloody imprecations (with spatterings of 'fucus') through his dulse-skeined beard, riposting with some vigour 'Wha' d' ya call me, ya piece o' shite, a ruby what?' - and in a twinking I regretted my bluff rejoinder, taking to my heels, severely and severally traumatised by his sartorial coruscation, his noxious dyspnoea, and (most of all) by my wan solecism - truly a hibernal baptism of fire and brimstone. *rhopalicitudinarianistrismus (Ger.): rare condition - the compulsion to spin out (Ausspinnung) stray concatenations of verbiage, asymptotically attaining semantic torpor through alphanumeric expansion.
Unwilling to collude in the portrayal of his dipsomaniac uncle as an entertaining 'bon viveur', he insisted - as always on Boxing Day - upon unbridled veracity, lambasting him as a repellent old soak, and decreeing the imposition of 'cold turkey for everyone!' to be the droll epitome of festive altruism.
Committed agoraphobic, shunning arbitrary encounters without, seeks undemanding companionship from soulmate of dolorous disposition looking to share frowsty basement flat for searching disquisitions on psychic anomie.
Having kebabbed half a dozen of the lilliputian crew on a splinter, Polyphemus retired for his siesta, dozing stertorously; until - without an iota of compassion - Odysseus awoke him with a string of stentorious gibes - 'Boor! Groundling! Churl! Barbarian! - and in promptly ramming the greasy log into the Cyclops' eye only added injury to insult.
Transfixed by the polychrome contiguities of comestibles on his shish kebab he determined upon acquiring a vitrine of formaldehyde within which to immortalise and display it at the forthcoming quadrennial exhibition in Rome, capriciously entitling it: 'The talentless in thrall to a tantalus - the viewer skewered'.
"To hell with finesse, Desiree, this is Shakespearean hard porn we're shooting, so just let Rodney rip off the diaphanous gown without making any pother, and then get right down to it like I told you - but keep talking real dirty . . . hey, what's Anne Hathaway's next line? - here we are: 'Give it to me, big boy, thou Stratford varlet, thou scurvy knave, thou poltroon . . .' - think you can manage that, Desiree? . . . O.K. then - action!"
Screaming "What do you mean, don't look a gift horse in the mouth?", in an enraged paroxysm of intransigence my wife there and then arrogated the right to choose in future her own Christmas present, surprising me more than somewhat in so abruptly abrogating our time-honoured and congenial custom of exchanging book tokens of modest value, and - on my part at least - so considerately wrapped, too.
As from afar they heard the City Waits noising the splendid avoirdupois of the mayoral goose, here, huddled together in the biting cold, three elderly graveside mourners - reluctantly doffing their hats to expose wind-swept sastrugi of snowy locks - remarked the sad passing of their Oxford colleague, the diminutive, bookish don, Dr. Sod.
Full oft, when to my Dell I hie / In piquant not in pensive mood, / They flash upon that froward eye - / The whimsical, the plenitude / Of appellations springing forth, A simulacrum of my worth / As poetaster, punster trite, / Anonymously yours - Bud Myte.
'"If schlock 'n' awe don't bring out the numerous in them pesky heathens then help me gawd but I'll delegate their country, I'll subscribe the enemy to our next excursion, I'll . . . you got that down, dumbass?, - then clean it up and read it back to me: "If shock and awe fail to evoke the numinous I shall depredate their country and ascribe anomie to our next incursion" - yeah, sure it's O.K., whatever, - now watch this drive!'
Little Miss Mussock Sat on a tussock Giving her curds away; Along came a chider Who sat down beside her And said: "Eh, doll, you after a Ph. D. in indefeasible dumbassery, perched like Symeon the Stylite atop this 'ere 'ummock? - 'cos wot's with the prodigal largesse, yow big lummock?"
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