"Oh, Rosetta," implored Jean-Francois, tracing and caressing every untranslatable line inscribed upon her dusky face, "pillory my dumbassery if you will, but speak to me, palliate my frustration, reveal yourself by yielding some sign, some token of your intentions - or at the very least acknowledge receipt of my glyphic devotion"; but the hard-hearted enigma remained stonily unmoved by his ideogrammatic fumblings.
His punctilious, supercilious correction of my every typo - as if he were the undownable paragon of proofreading - brought out the recalcitrant in me, such that, when today he had the nerve to strike out (strike out indeed!) my cunningly recondite 'ploce' only to replace it with a lacklustre 'place' (wherefore 'place', I ask you!?), I also struck out and gave him a thorough drubbing, I say a thorough verbal drubbing - so that put him out and in his place - whence (displaced and disgraced) off he slunk for a good, good cry, the niminy-piminy namby-pamby!
Although initially allocated only a silent role in the school nativity play - fifth angel [dispensation to force-feed with provender the cardboard ox] - at his parents' absolute insistence little Johnny was allowed to advance centre stage to deliver his party-piece 'Where the bee sucks, there suck I' - prompting the local reviewer to contrive, during the ordained quota of nanoseconds designated for cogitation, the monepic headline: INTEMPESTIVITY.
"What - am I happy now? - yes . . . but on second thoughts maybe no: the consultant guardedly acknowledged that his early diagnosis of my presumed epanorthotic condition had been pure guesswork, or rather - as I think he may have phrased it - 'the product of speculative ratiocination'; but when I then humbly petitioned for his considered prognosis he issued me with a veritable ukulele, or do I mean ukase? - ordering me to comport myself with less proximity, no, less uncertainty . . . yes, certainly with more dignity . . . but then perhaps he's unaware (or is he?) that my dog has fleas - probably, indeed undoubtedly, acquired on a recent trip to Hawaii."
"Do you think, maybe," hazarded the vicar, soulfully soliciting his wife's solicitous solace, "if I were, perhaps, to don or otherwise furnish myself with a pair, a brace, a twosome of those groovy - what do you call 'em - John Lennon glasses, that they might in their unspectacular (hm, hm)selves just go some small way towards disguising, or rather compensating for, my propensity, well, my inclination, how shall I put it, my penchant . . . verily I say unto you, my quasi-involuntary espousal of the circumlocutory, - or if you will - the periphrastic mode of righteous convivial discourse; or would that be venturing one giant step too far into the burning fiery furnace of contemporary mores?"
I do not like Elgar; Nimrod? - fatuous rhopalic Ed-war-dian nobilmente, instigating immeasurable animadversion - grandiloquence!
I'd as lief bestow my savoir-faire on a drunken boor as suffer his maudlin bonhomie.
Chapfallen, yet bravely gritting his teeth and keeping a stiff upper lip, he was nonplussed at their evident consternation, unaware that his unwitting simulation of risus sardonicus was communicating a certain lack of savoir-faire as he stepped up to give the funeral eulogy.
"Moving on to the Miscellaneous Lots, Ladies and Gentlemen: Lot 666, a choice example of the Victorian taxidermist's art - one leviathan basking fesswise, mounted in a bow fronted glass case furnished with a mermaid's bower of intricate tesserae, attended by megalodon and kraken counter-rampant, and accommodating an enticing melange of sirens au naturel - provenance and certificate of authenticity courtesy of the Loch Ness Tartan Charlatans . . . what on earth do you mean, sir, 'utter piffle'? - really, if you don't intend to bid, please have the savoir-faire to remain silent; so what shall we say for this oceanic gallimaufry?"
Winnowing the gallimaufry of non-sequiturs from her gratuitous tirade, he divined that the little woman was actually accusing him of being a befuddled flaneur, and merely because he'd snuck another roborant snifter before claiming that streetlamp - that really, really exquisite, ever so sexy streetlamp back there - as his very own chef-d'oeuvre.
"Dr. Johnson," your sententious punditry is famously sans pareil, if not altogether de trop," contributed Boswell, "and may I - as but your humble myrmidon and constant scribe - declare a wee smidgin of esprit de corps in acclaiming such erudite sassenach volubility . . . and furthermore (if I may be permitted), in presently citing your esteemed blethering self:"'Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than open one's mouth and remove all doubt.'"
With practised hebetude Desdemona reclined in an attitude of lassitude upon the pillow, wearying of Othello's correction: his disputatious quibblings about her morals and her sartorial taste - viz today her stockings, which being bas sans couture he pronounced unseemly - thereby in a disingenuously antanaclastic pun at one stroke blackening her reputation and undermining her amour-propre.
"My good Friday," remonstrated Crusoe tristfully, "given the extreme scantiness of your breechclout it hardly becomes you to cast aspersions on my own superior attire; and as purported rapporteur to your distant tribe you might have the decency to acknowledge that, as an artless savage, you cannot be expected to recognise neat selvage when you see it; so I would respectfully posit that to inscribe 'I don't like the cut of his jib' - although commendably nautical a construction - does constitute a sadly ill-informed disparagement of the sartorial refinements of my couture."
"In short, owing to the unforeseen indisposition of our epicene mezzo-soprano - languishing under the indictment of scienter action instigated by an (allegedly) emasculated countertenor - the imbroglio seraglio quintet in the final act of tonight's opera 'Les Androgynes' will be replaced by a staged demonstration of legal wrangling between our sponsors and our management team . . . and trust that you are malleable to this late succedaneum."
Quadrivial Quadrameter: When copious powderings, Belind', / Those ravages cannot rescind, / Then fret not o'er the pitted husk / Nor front the brow with veil subfusc; / A nosegay held before redeems / The residue of astroblemes / By rusticating squandered stars / To hermitage amid the flo'ers; / Thence congruous, you may converse / With macaronis, cads, or worse, / And scienter action take 'gainst those / Who spy the remnant of your nose.
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