Last night was so cold that I jaw a wumper and was almost at the stage of glaring woves in bed!
The frain-breezing that followed has left me in decidedly Mooneristic Spode!
I am, as some will know from a previous example of the genre (not to mention endangered species!), a keen, nay fanatical, blighter of rogs.
Quite what these poor old rogs – which I see as some form of backward tribe inhabiting a corner of the world right off the map! – have ever done to deserve this kind of wholesale and relentless blighting, I could not begin to tell you. It is nothing personal, since I also – and even more sinisterly – bite rooks!
Due to a dolting mog, I shall be billing up the fucket with water this morning – and thoroughly flopping the moor – and, since it looks set fair to be a sunny day, wanging out the hoshing…
Yes, indeedy, I am in Spooneristic mode today! And why not? Any withered old academic who can speak, even if it was apocryphal, of fighting a liar in the Quad and hissing mystery lectures before being sent home via the town drain gets my vote!
Biting rooks has to be my number one passion in life. Amazon is awash with their poor truncated bodies and ghastly-eyed, blood-strewn wee heads. Some friends even have one or more shitting on their selves, and sometimes, when in meading road, go as far as to bead these rooks.
You know what, I gare to Swod that my blighting habit is more fun than savving Hex (and those aware of Terry Pratchett’s Unseen University books will readily understand the very real need so to do!), halfing my lead off or winking drisky.
Right, I lust meave you and choe about my gores: give Kipper a parrot, bake the med and, having drot guest, sut in the sin for a while!