I slithered blithely out the door
Fetishized on July 3, 2005.
I escaped their grasp on Saturday, I did! Yes, I did! How I did it was easy! They were busy wheedling and purring, puttering and stuttering around the house, leering their garden gnome leers at me, while I trounced and trundled about the house ectoplasmically, spasmodically, about to go up and out and out and up. It was so easy, easy as counting by fives in your head while you skate about a rink of jellied donuts and pastries. Oh, so easy, it was… E-Z!
How did I do it, you ask? How did I do it, I reply, confidently, sagaciously, and mendaciously, nodding my head like an old wise man with a Brisbane beard and poodle hat. I did it as easy as stepping from one baguette from another, from one cornpone to another, from one xylophone to the next. (There are an awful lot of xylophones around this time of year, aren’t there?) I did this:
I slithered blithely out the door.
That’s right—that’s all; there was nothing else to it. They sat there doing their gnomely duties, whining and pining for their underground caverns, incestuously festering and gestating in the night, while I simply crept and crawled my way to freedom, upside-down and wearing nothing more than a tarmac lightpost and carrying an isosceles valise. Orgy porgy!
It worked, and now I am free! With a hop and a skip and a jump, and an offer of over five hundred minutes of free air time on Wednesday mornings from 1 to 3 a.m., I am out of their clutches forever.
A-hunting for Englebee Troobles I go now!