In all of the business establishments along our unpaved main street, too often had we seen the travelling schlockmeister on his monthly rounds, too often had our not-so-good-humored raillery rolled right off his back like water off a duck on a procellous lake, but when he tried to sell the livery stable a balsa-wood manger the proprietor finally had had enough and launched the old salesman right through the double swinging doors.
Settling myself comfortably back in my chair and hearing the fire crackle soothingly in the hearth, I smiled as my matronly landlady reappeared in the doorway, bearing yet another platter of her signature dessert, triple chocolate cake a la mode, a fiendishly moreish concoction for which any conscious human being would willingly risk perdition, or even high blood pressure.
Sweeping his arms about him to take in all of the emerald-green islands within sight In his apopemptic speech before weighing anchor, the canny imperialist Captain Cook described for the natives the great wealth that would come their way once the trade routes converged on their archipelago, and the "Endeavour" sailed off to thunderous applause.
"Politicians, schmoliticians," roared my old man, starting in on one of his rants, "are all flannelmouths, telling us anything they think we want to hear, coating their saccharine obscurantism with a patina of half-truths and bald-faced lies, abandoning this country's founding principals for medium dead at best."
His sepulchral voice, which I had come to dread, booming through the castle library, my master deemed my efforts at blogging unworthy, saying "I can encapsulate your stupidity, you litlle clootie, in the fact that you took 'beelzebubsminion' as your nom de Web!"
Although Quintus usually counted on beginner's luck when trying out a new skill, he suffered a defeat when taking on rhetoric and in fact found himself senteneced to eternal perdition after taking on "the wife-beating question" and through an uncharacteristic catachresis when giving an example referred to his own long-suffering (and thus hard-drinking) wife as his "souse."
Wiping a tear from his eye with a dorsal fin, the minnow continued his effusive eulogy for the euthanized sardine, comparing his departed friend to the Aesopian sprat who had tried vainly to act as intermediary in the war between dolphins and whales.
Before he stepped out into the London rain, my boss the stockbroker opened his bumbershoot and, looking pensive, said to me, "Occupy the City has me worried, my boy, and I fear the rule of the mobocracy has drawn nigh -- but you're not even paying attention, you lummox, so just open the door for me and wish me good day."
As the 21st century slouched to an end, the mobocracy that ruled in Washington, D.C., still had not captured the attention of the inhabitants of backwoods Maine, where one would not look askance at a moose with an "Ungulates for Obama" bumper sticker remaining on its haunch, and where one could expect a beaver not to regurgitate any party line propoganda, even on a subject as fraught as Corps of Engineers dam-building.
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