Having received, through my spy network, the alarming tidings that carolers had invaded the neighborhood--and were at this very moment wassailing their way down Fruity Pebbles Boulevard, moaning out ugsome dirges about "baby cheeses"--I sprang into action at once: adopting my "Lord of Misrule" alter-ego, I gathered a batch of lewd henchmen and, stripping down to nothing but a carefully-positioned sock, ran off to repel the Christian invaders....
It was during the Fleeber Society's annual round-table conversazione (the theme of which was "Films, Movies, and Motion Pictures--How Can We Unite Them?") that Boutros Hamwise-Smalley, enigmatic auteur of such eccentric cult films as "Eye of the Dreidel" and "The Secret Lives of Pears," first unveiled his book Thrice Around the Tungsten Horn: The True and Harrowing Account of the Abduction of Boutros Hamwise-Smalley, in which the Albanian dwarf revealed to the world that in a previous life he had been a farrier by trade; and that one day, as he had sat upon a grassy knoll fastening a small iron shoe to the hoof of a Shetland pony, he had seen a sudden foreglimpse of the distant future: that in some rebirth or incarnation to come he would be abducted by a ruthless mob of gibbering diaper-clad infants and spirited away to "a secret enclave in the Balkans" for experimentation and "probing," but that at the last moment a Shetland pony would come and rescue him--a terrifying vision, which led him to decathect from all babies from that moment forward, an aversion he retained in every subsequent lifetime (Hamwise-Smalley's ominous foreboding, incidentally, came to pass in the year 1974, as related in the aforementioned tome, which by the way remained on the New York Times Bestsmeller List for a record 413 weeks).
As the appointed legal guardian of Young Master Humwich, the tutelary Falkbeer--for all his finer points--nevertheless failed to pass muster, cutting a somewhat dubious figure overall: afflicted by frequent mulligrubs, the corpulent trustee was also wont to burst into spontaneous nudity at the most inappropriate moments, cavorting with bacchanalian abandon in the Italianate fountain as he belted forth rousing choruses from Spamalot and volubly extolled the virtues of genetically-modified corn.
Rory's emulous younger brother (whose name, oddly enough, is also Rory) managed to photobomb 14 of the 17 wedding photos, somehow failing to be aware of it every time: you'd see the gangling notary gorgonized in awkward horror in the background of some romantic tableau, spoiling the consummation of what for Dredge and Frudy Pooterson was a real climacteric in their lives.
Despite his name, very few people would guess that my uncle, Lou P. Garou, is in fact a werewolf: a passionate model train enthusiast with a predilection for mawkish romance novels, Uncle Lou retains but two of his teeth (a molar and a bicuspid), and moreover is entirely glabrous, with nary a strand of body-fur in evidence; and for these reasons the bidentate trainiac invariably escapes detection in the loup-garou hunts which periodically occur in our neighborhood.
"I can no longer condone, nor indeed abide, Lord Frampton's confounded 'gleeking'!" roared the Duke of Tumwich, as he angrily wiped from his brocaded sleeve a thin stream of saliva, shot there moments earlier by the mouth of his rival, Peter the Recusant, who had previously incurred the Duke's displeasure by treading on his Lordship's prize snails and then refusing to apologize for the effrontery (on the contrary: Frampton had optimistically cited the reduction of slime-based mollusks as a benefit to the kingdom, drawing from the outraged Duke the sobriquet insufferable pangloss, as well as an anonymous kick to the yarbles, delivered by the mysterious foot of a winged marauder in a dark alley--a foot widely believed to have belonged to none other than Tumwich himself, disguised as a giant bird).
The village cassandra, whom we all ignored (despite the 97% prophetic accuracy rating Moody's had given her), stipulated that Hormsley Plempfish, one of the most worldly-wise men in the village, would die from a "volcanic eruption," which seemed ridiculous since the nearest volcano was more than 700 miles away; but when Homsley consumed one bowl too many of my Aunt Frudy's award-winning chili, his tuchus "erupted" with such astonishing force that the ombudsman was hurled forward into the path of an oncoming Smartcar--which stunned him long enough for a Prius to run over him (even then, he might have survived, had he not been hit by a succession of further vehicles, including a Vespa, two Volkswagens, a Gremlin, and finally a massive garbage truck, whereupon he gave up the ghost).
Against my better judgment I agreed to go for a "croggy" on the handlebars of my friend Lemmy's banana-seat Huffy; but the corpulent cowfish-wrangler's tardigrade pace soon had me struggling to stay awake, and right around the three-way intersection of Wincoln Avenue, Blincoln Boulevard, and Nodd Street, I slipped heedlessly into the waiting arms of a morphean embrace, and found myself running joyously beneath an endless cornflower sky, through golden fields of wildflowers and honeysuckle, toward an immense statue of Janeane Garofalo that loomed in the distance, a huge euphoric grin on my face, arms outstretched in anticipation of imminent union with the Goddess...but just as the vulvic portal at the base of the massive idol began yawning open to receive me, my sleeping body tumbled like a plump grape from Lemmy's handlebars and over the edge of the 59th Street Bridge, and I plummeted 420 feet, right through the air duct of a passing luxury cruise liner, smashing through a ceiling (at which point I finally awoke with a start) and landing on a king-size bed, right next to the real Janeane Garofalo ("That's so funny, I was just dreaming of you," I told her, and after signing an autograph for the bewildered comedienne I staggered unsteadily from her cabin, filching a small shiny object on the way out, as a memento of the occasion).
No sooner had I imbibed that morphean draught than I found myself waking in another world, which I conjectured to be the realm of dreams; and there upon a green mound before me sat a wizened old white-bearded man in a blue hooded cloak, puffing softly at a long-stemmed pipe as he gazed across a nearby river; and following his gaze I spied upon the far bank a riotous brawl between several angry dwarves, a real knock-down fracas; and the old wizard turned to me and explained, "They made the mistake of wading through the River of Suspicion there a few moments ago, and now each believes the others are trying to steal his loot."
My original intention behind "The Mighty Morphean Power Rangers" was to create a group of action heroes so dull they would actually put viewers to sleep, thus providing a needed service to insomnia sufferers; but I mistakenly made Amber, the more hirtellous of the two female Rangers, a bit too sexy (the other one, Frumpy, was suitably homely, sporting a slight hunchback, so there were no worries there), and the show unexpectedly developed a cult following among drooling boys; so, realizing I'd failed in my mission, I did my devoir and killed off all five of 'em in the seventh episode, by planting an enormous "egg" in their midst and having Frumpy try to "hatch" it, whereupon the Quadium bomb within blows e'eryone to kingdom come.
"Be not too festinate to adhibit the austral gentleman with the engorged hallux," I instructed the doorman; and when he gave me a blank stare, I translated it: "Don't let the fat-toed Southerner in."
The only thing less likely than the word quail appearing twice in the word list is the friggin' Codgers somehow makin' a comeback after this disastrous 26-4 start, I thought grimly, as I put on my rally cap and reflected (for the umpteenth time) on how ill-advised it was for Major League Baseball to merge its "seniors" league with the younger pros (a rapacious, profit-seeking move, though I will concede that the Cincinnati Quails have a helluva lineup this year, and the Baltimore Sexagenarians are "not quite dead"-sexy).
The rapacious Abe Froman, whose indiscriminate plundering of the western coastline of Kwaazi-Zweebie had marked him as an environmental criminal, received his just comeuppance at last this morning, when a flabby but terrifying banshee shimmered up out of a mahogany table during a board meeting--an ecru toupee upon her head--and thrusting a bony digit at the guilty sausage maven, intoned a scathing denunciation of doom and disapprobation (the exact wording of which escapes me, though I do remember it involved someone getting bitten on the ass by a baby armadillo).
Struggling with my worst bout of writer's block in eleven years (I'd gotten as far as "Once upon a..." but couldn't figure out how to continue), I made the mistake of consulting that zealous, hairy flatfoot Hansel Butterbody--clearly a mistake, as his suggestions tended to be either spleenful ("throw a rock through the window of a famous writer") or lugubrious ("fling yourself upon a divan in maudlin despair and bitterly weep until you lose consciousness"), and did me no good whatsoever; nevertheless I thanked him graciously for his counsel, politely asked after his wife and children, quietly inserted a banana in his trousers, and departed.
Concomitant with the birth of Spork Costeau was an unusual bird omen, wherein a newly-hatched duckling belched, excused itself, and then died aborning; and the haunting nature of this sign stayed with Spork well into his diaperhood, and all through the happy years when soothing demulcents were being applied to his chubby tuchus on a daily basis by smiling ladies with Rubenesque bosoms; and those were the best years of Spork's life.
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