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The haberdashery, act II

Flaunted on March 12, 2006.

Again, I flopped on by Mr. Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger’s haberdashery on Wednesday, inquiring as to whether or not he would like to take on an apprentice. Again, he said no. So I begged him, and pleaded with him, and taunted him over his expansive beer gut and fourth chin, and again he said, “hell no.”

So again I stopped by the Ham & Eggs (a triangular sign in one window said they’re renaming the eigencafé to the Crammin’ Pegs next week), and ordered myself a spam sandwich, fourteen truffles stuffed with ham and scrambled eggs, and a roast pig still on the spit. They delivered the pig, but forgot the spit, so I shouted “Blam-damn you splonglers, you unga-bunglers; can’t you get anything right?!” and hustled on out of there without paying one ingot for that “meal.” They weren’t happy and tried to muster a posse after me, but I killed all their assassins one by one (old Sammy Dreckers included!), by beating them to death with an old lampshade attached to an underdog.

The underdog, unfortunately, was killed in action. Its last words to me were: “Woof, woof… woooof.” Poor underdog.

On Thursday, I visited a brothel behind the abortion clinic on Squayzie Avenue, and got arrested. Whatever you read in the newspapers about a brothel bust that netted half a dozen goats along with one Mr. Phillip Årp, dear readers, it isn’t true. Unless you hear it from a horse-monkey’s mouth, nothing is true.