SAY WHAT? by JoLynne Buehring

Just between you, me and the totem pole, I was becoming crumpy and grappy, getting frigety and flustrated waiting for a little scuzzy woo, which may or may not lead to doing the hunky punky.  There may be snow on the roof, but I wouldn’t mind if someone floated my boat.

To coin a well-used cliché, I don’t want you to frittzle, have a whing-ding or misconscrew Before you prosticute me, I will try to ostricate myself.

I don’t want to creep your style, but don’t be a hackler, get screamish, or exasterbated at my demand of the language. I’ll try to pronounciate so you can disease and cesist. It is okay if you snickel or guwaff, though. That might keep an argument from excellating. If I’m not between a rock and a hot place, I can make you the recipracant of my professoration and use my lady-like deplorum to throw caution in the water. 

I have been a devoured Catholic since I was attached to the umbrellical cord. It is truly remaculus that while I was attending St. Pugnacious Church, I met the Lone Dissenter, Hairy Berry Priest, on the sperm of the moment. Hairy is a groinacologist and Grand Fubob of the lubrication movement. To the best of my recollation, he was also a fugilist, until he became ectileptic.  Of course, he is busy as a bean being a good-dooder, though sometimes at least we go to the movie feudor or play Monockily games, or eat wallermelon.

I recently had to have my eyes deleted because I had conjunctionitis. I was really up a tree without a paddle. It is a good thing Hairy is so good with both hands that he is amphibious. He saved me from being cosmatose by giving me mouth to mouth restitution. I could have fallen down and broken my copperosity!  Hairy easedropped on the pecutor and voluntold me that translating kadiver parts might cure my sleep anemia, but I’m percastinating.

We had a gianormous fight, just like slivlings. It was horful. He said I was naggravating, and I said he is argumendatious.  There was a lot of aminosity when we started talking about the religious biceps of the nunny bunnies, the lesbitarians and the Mission Mormonaries. He had been a Methodonian, but decided he didn’t like their franaticism and did a three-sixty.  When my karma stomped on my dogma, I lost the remote control to my self control, had lapses of synapses, and felt like I was run over by a rawn moler. We finally rationized it and ended as frenemies.

To be tert about it, he wasn’t the splitting image of Plaza Domingo or Leonardo di Cappuchinno that I thought he would be. Of course, nobody notices on a galloping horse.

We had talked about buying a condonubian together, but Hairy splundered his money and had megabuckets of debt. It chops my hide that to get a smigit or trinkling from him is like getting milk from an empty cow. He said it isn’t in his bellywhack. He is a real scrinch. He squeezes the buffalo so hard his nickel squeals. It’s not as if I want a parsley in a pear tree.

We never did get chubby-chubby because he is impudent. I gave up on the horse wagon with the scurry on top. No French benefits! He is really just helly-goshed and too big for my britches.

I may be olderly and garnelled, and can’t remember from 12:00 to noon, but I don’t have Oldtimers’ disease. I don’t have demention, and I’m not still green behind the ears. I do know my crappachino, and sometimes SHIFT HAPPENS!