Distant Mudflap,

Have you lost your darts? Is your cork getting torqued? It might be about time to chant about the sponges that don't have any clumps. Before you decide, however, consider this:

There's an airplane in the hangar, waiting for a new spring. In a fit of jealous haberdashery, a man from Scranton, Illinois, put a scooter in his back pocket and hid under a barrel in a hangar in Mootscoop, Underloopy. There, the airplane smacked into a Styrofoam plate as it scrammed to a steep, unwound scraulch. The man was silver and teal, and skidded across the concrete in an attempt to evade conduction. This was to no avail, as he split his butt on a can opener.


We've all had soap stuck to our facial hair. We know about the fear of a drastic overhaul in the global economy. In fact, last week someone spilled some water. DO NOT JUDGE YOUR MONKEY BEFORE YOUR MONKEY SMUDGES STEW. I don't believe we've met.

In place of a ceremonial responsorial spat, we've substituted here a smidgen of bits.

ê Smidge


#bits #bitS #biTs

#bIts #Bits #BitS

#BiTs #BIts #BItS


#bItS #bITs #bITS

#bite #bite #bie?


ê Smidge

But we were considering the chant, and the sponges, and the substitute for wheels. MillPoker, mortar-head-with-little-grip, wrote in the ElbowCramper of Cob's Long Tenure:

"Weeble my fans! If it's blowing in here, just think of what it must be like for the clumpless scrunges on the outside! Though you fire your mustard, your sandwich will always be dry. You cannot hope to solve the riddles of ill-fitted clothing now, but put your head in a jar for a couple of centuries, and Cob knows what you might uncover! LID!"

Remember, when MillPoker speaks of scrunges, you know how to read! Rejuvenate some calories, let your arid nomenclature speak to Daphne!


And if you think that's rarified,

Spoonger, Map Licker of Spain