Having squoze through the interstices between the letters of “To Be Continued,” The Misters bounded into the bathroom and waited until The Smitty ope’d his pond’rous and marble [-colored] jaws to drop the gecko on the floor (in order to commencify the pre-mortem cat-n-mousification process).
“Mister, that’s quite a sentence.”
“Mister, it’s nothing compared to the sentence Mr. Smitty has given that poor gecko!”
“We must come to his aid! aid! aid!”
Acting as a wall, This Mister kept The Smitty’s weaving ‘n dodging head from having its way with the unfortunate guest.
Having slipped behind the wastepaper basket, the gecko slipped into that vital obscurity dreaded by Achaean heroes (warm days tilling the soil and rocking their infant sons asleep by the fire).
“ANY-way!”
Right: time to take a break, polish our shields, slay, dress, and roast mutton.
To Be …(you know what I’m saying).
No comments:
Post a Comment