What an Englebee Trooble is
Incarcerated on June 12, 2005.
Another day, another bit of paltry Malthusian Fluffernutter to deal with, as the old aphorism goes. And cats in the cradle and my ears bloodshot and drunken. Earlier this week, a clutch of starfish elucidated forthrightly that my website is a problematic pile of—they put it bluntly—meerkat feces, topped with a dollop of minty-fresh ranch dressing. I naturally took splendiferous objection with this, especially as they bothered me during my phantasmagorical contemplation of the Fraunhofer patents and Alyssa Milano’s lovely feet (mmmhh…). Thusly, instead of taking any pertinacious or loquacious advice they may have disgorged expeditiously, I promptly used them for a deciduous garbage disposal.
Their parsimonious blibble-babble still continued to anger me, infatuatingly so, so I effetely decided that I would force them to become less perpendicular to the reticular dysgenesis encephalopathy.
It didn’t work.
So, I arose and went for a stroll on my triceps, singing and flinging about the fact that, in all my years, I never once found a right proper Englebee Trooble. (I bet you thought I was finished with the Trooble chase, didn’t you, dear reader?) Passers-by, concerned, intercepted me and asked me what an Englebee Trooble was, so I told them:
An Englebee Trooble is a nattering thing that squats in the window and chimes out the daylight hours forever and forever! An Englebee Trooble is more quixotic than a flying pi, and it’s more scrumptious than an entire collection—even a sagacious one—of triangular briefcases! An Englebee Trooble can tell you the difference between a crowing cock and a sowing sock and a flowing flock without the slightest difficulty of transubstantiationalism, and it can do it while sitting on its haunches and whistling through its flatulent nostrils!
Oh, ohh! An Englebee Trooble would solve all the world’s problems, and even most of mine! Ahh, if only I had an Englebee Trooble or two, yes! I’d monophonetically metamorph into a catalytic orthography faster than you can lucidly spout, “Qweeeeeeeeeee… weppa weppa weppa spork-ding bloogle!” Ahhh, yes!
Furthermore! An Englebee Trooble would, by God, fornicatiously—!
But each time I tried to tell them about how an Englebee Trooble would fornicatiously matriculate the phlogisticated carbuncle, every one just said “Spwahh?” and walked away. So much for employing the help or harness of other allomorphically incestuous people in my quest for Englebee Troobles.
At this point, I spun on home and ate a dinner of canned spiders, over easy, and crème de la goat nipple.