Forgive me for not being a better deipnosophist -- you see, my former life as a palmer has instilled in me a tendency toward cheeseparing, a tendency that remains strong no matter how much abundance confronts me at the table, and while I wish I possessed more of the conversational skills of a compere, I simply cannot pull my mind away from thoughts about what we waste as we dine.
The advent of the holiday season in Pleasantville was rarely underscored by music, since the town's appointed wassailers were such milksops that they could not decide, until some time after New Year's, what noels they preferred to sing.
The morning of the game, I got so hopped up on the bean that I couldn't stop joggling, and later in the day my caffeinated tremors became so extreme that my rally cap fell of my head, and that wasn't good: you see, it caused the team I had bet on to lose, and that's how, in a dramatic change of fortune, I was forced to sell off my orchidaceous treasure, my priceless Blaschka glass flowers.
As far as how many conversation partners Wally preferred, the self-described "itinerant interlocutor" was variadic—no number of "inputs" was too small or too large—he would talk to any group, anywhere, anytime: that's how he sold so many baubles!
Sure, I'd like to join you on the kamikaze mission, and no, I don't believe that old canard about suicide being imprudent, but I'm afraid I haven't got the clothes for it: see, my entire habiliment has been etiolated after too much time in the laundry, and really, I'd want to look my best.
Being a pacifist who deplored conflict of all sorts, Miss Bennet would skedaddle whenever a conversation became even a skosh agonistic, and, so that her hair would not flop around wildly during these sudden flights, she kept it always in a snood.
So the head honcho of our lab comes back from summer vacation with some kind of serotinal catatonia, almost like he's in a brown study or something, except there's nothing going on "up there," and the next thing we hear, he's gone and flipped some molecules around without regard for chirality, and the soon after that, the whole Louis J. Blackman wing of the Thompson building is up in flames.
You say that you are committed to unveiling this production, but your punctilio—your obsession with every detail of the set—comes pari passu with an inability to move the work beyond its incipient stages: is this project for real, or are your endless preparations a kind of kabuki?
I am delighted to auspicate my tenure as editorhere... well forgiveme... you see, when I was still in diaperhood, I had a tendency to agglutinate my words, and it was only under duress that I learned to keep them apart; now, forty years later and without threat of punishment, I do regresssometimes.
Don't think you'll be able to cultivate your leechflair (agglutinated term for the skill of being a lazy bum) in this house: it is, after all, a gynarchy here, and the missus would have you hanged.
"You wanna talk prolepsis, I was done with that skyclad zumba class before it even began," said Larry, who despite the encouragement of a genial fitness instructor, did not understand why bulbousness reduction had to involve such exposure.
"The proximate cause of your disharmony," said the famed relationship counselor, whose hourly rate was much more than a pittance, "is that you both speak with such aspiration as to give each other the impression of being very tired or very bored, but the ultimate cause, I'm afraid, is that you are engaged in a battle of the sexes, and historically the only resolution to such battles has been... oh, time's up!"
In meandering through the tranquil countryside of Ruritania, one might be startled to notice the locals' frequent use of a certain English swear word, and indeed more than one travel writer has japed at the Ruritanians for their vulgarity, but there is a good explanation: while the national dish of Ruritania is fried duck, the Ruritanian language lacks terms for "fry" and "duck," and so the anglicism "fried duck" is used in place of a native descriptor for the delicacy, and through the process of sycope this much celebrated entree has come to be known as "fuck."
Prof. Kutoff, the rogue historian, claims that errors in scientific transcription are not always nocuous: in support of the virtues of omission, for example, Kutoff asserts that the great Einstein, in copying his flawed original equation "jE = mc2," was so distracted by troubadour music that he wrote it mistakenly as "E = mc2," and thus (according to Kutoff) apheresis should take some credit for the greatest paradigm shift in physics to date.
The Culture Minister was so rowelled by the inferior quality of the nations poets that he asked the Defense Secretary whether anything could be done to stem the flow of doggerel, and in this request, the Defense Secretary saw a perfect opportunity to test his latest Dr. Stangelovian creation, a colony of robotic vampire bats which could be dispatched to prey on the offending versifiers as soon as the draculin needed for their synthetic saliva had been readied by the lab.
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