For the coronation of the new Queen of England, the elderly President Humblefink was asked to be the compere; he gladly accepted and at the ceremony he pontificated about the queen as if he were her father introducing her to a new suitor, preening himself at the audience's apparent approval of his speech; per contra, the crowd was pleased, not about the speech, but by the president's warm, soothing, butyraceous voice.
When the muscular compere of the Oscars came out, my mother was surprised at the sound of his butyraceous voice as he started to pontificate for twenty minutes about the best animation; per contra, I believed that his voice was about as smooth as a rusty nail.
Dr. Watson continued to beaver away at preserving for posterity the cases of Sherlock Holmes, but because Holmes, when pressed for details, tended to reply with such captious descriptions of his own reasoning that the confused Watson was unable to accurately record them, the resulting stories were an inutile reflection of the sleuth's genius, and even caused people to doubt that Watson was his bona fide associate.
Publisher Houston Kronkeit didn't mind survivalists per se, but not only had Trog Bentwell literally been raised in a cave, boasting with crude thrasonical glee of his exploits in wrestling grizzly bears, he also accepted a large advance for a wilderness adventure novel that was a sure-thing bestseller, and then turned in a book that had been demassified into an incoherent diatribe against postindustrial civilization, guaranteed to appeal only to cracked old Luddites, disadvantaged technopeasants, and paranoid militia types such as himself.
When Augustus Brilliantine, the leading light of his glittering young social set, took up as his latest hobby the study of slugs and snails, everyone knew it augered a season in which the entire jeunesse dorée would follow him into dorkish biological arcana, but when Esmeralda Thripp began bringing her slime molds to cocktail parties, it was clear the trend had jumped the shark, and soon they all returned to their usual upper-crust pursuits---all but Caspar van Milquetoast, who took a formal degree in bryology, and spent the rest of his life happy among his mosses and liverworts.
When Esmeralda woke up the very next morning seven months pregnant through apparent parthenogenesis, she figured she was right to question her judgment in ridiculing the outlandish costume of the woman she had met among the neolithic ruins on top of that tor in Devonshire: the woman obviously had the ability to put the whammy on her, and Esmeralda now suspected that her effulgent quality was the nimbus of divinity, and not just the reflected glow of her cell phone.
Tired of writing dialogue for his often logomaniac detective Sherlock Holmes, and of having to invent plots and clues that would show off his artisanal approach to crime-solving, Arthur Conan Doyle killed off his creation; he did not anticipate the resulting outcry, however, and although it seemed it would take a true thaumaturge to raise Holmes from the dead, once the vox populi had spoken, Doyle brought his character back with no more than a little plot-tweaking.
Sherlock Holmes was such a skookum detective that he caught the murderer just as he was about to cleave the head of his preantepenultimate victim with an ax; he saw that, though disguised, the murderer did not have the comportment of a sick old man, but instead was the American wanderer, taking revenge for the wrong done him years ago in the xeriscaped Mormon community in the Utah desert.
The good Samaritan rescued Sherlock Holmes from the giant vat of Fettuccine Alfredo with the tacit understanding that Holmes would help him trace the missing diapason of his concerto for five organs and a flute, but Holmes immediately went to inspect a purported talking dog, and it wasn't until he had proven the talking dog was actually Professor Moriarty that he responded to the poor Samaritan's anguished epistolizing.
After the Wicked Witch of the East succumbed to having Dorothy's house dropped on her by an inconvenient tornado, the equally scabrous Wicked Witch of the West comminated Dorothy in an explosion of rage; she also coveted Dorothy's slippers, forcing the child to flee to the smaragdine glories of the Emerald City, where she sought refuge, as well as advice from the fabled Wizard of Oz---alas, he turned out to be merely a nice old man with bad breath.
After his septentrional travels among the polar bears and caribou of the tundra, Marco Polo's accounts of his bizarre adventures made his fellow Italians think him a true mythomane, and the incomprehensible casuistry with which his lawyer argued against the resulting charges for fraud reduced the courtroom to a stour of laughter, swearing, and attempts to punch Marco Polo in the nose, during which the entire scrum fell through a window into a canal, where the fight continued---thus giving birth to the game known as 'Marco Polo.'
The twenty-year-old jawan returning from battle jumped on a tomato- and sweat-stained fustilugs and they tumbled down the bumpy, snow-covered slope of a couloir; this scene was captured and promulgated in the New York Times, granting them eternal fame and embarrassment thanks to the picture of the soldier being squashed under the bulk of his opponent's posterior.
The handsome, well-muscled guy was so tired of his girlfriends fiddling with their hair instead of admiring his beefcake self that he advertised for a bald girlfriend, specifying that she be a "bland pilgarlic," so that he would not end up with the sort of tattooed and be-pierced woman who was not to his taste; thanks to an unflagged corrigendum, however, the ad asked for a "blind pilgarlic," and he ended up with a bevy of inked, annulate applicants who couldn't see their own hands before their faces, much less his gorgeousness.
Max Bialystock and Leo Bloom wanted "Springtime for Hitler," a worshipful pastiche of Hitler's life, to be so pediculous it closed on opening night, so--among other things--they commissioned choreography in which chorus girls goose-stepped around the stage as tittuping SS officers.
When Dr. Watson became a Quaker, he was so repelled by the violence of his Sherlock Holmes stories that when the time came to revise them for a new edition he removed all the murders--so that "Silver Blaze," for instance, was reduced to a story of a missing horse--and fled to the Antipodes; when Holmes discovered that Watson had bowdlerized the stories he trailed him to the South Pacific, where he found Watson had become an effusively friendly drunk, and Holmes got his revenge by rigging an ingenious device whereby Watson's beer barrel popped its spigot just in time to drill the good doctor right between the eyes.
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