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Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodles

Zanzibarred on December 11, 2005.

Hell is a nice place this time of year, especially in a handbasket! Unfortunately, I had to visit Hell in a small paper bag that I stole from a hapless little girl named Loquisha, unable to afford the luxury of my own handbasket—I wasted all my moolah appeasing Mr. Harshbarger, the haberdasher. It took a pretty penny to pay him off and get him to stop nailing things to my head. Orgy porgy!!

There are no garden gnomes in Hell—there are no gardens in hell; it’s too damned hot for them here. There are no Englebee Troobles, either—Hell does have big piles of steaming squirrel dung, some piles as big as mountains, even as big as my nose, but they call them “Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodles”—and these little babies don’t demand you write their names in all caps, either! I spent a few hours admiring them, playing with them and wallowing in them, before I stopped to wonder if Alyssa Milano or the Spice Girls and their gorgeous feet were anywhere around. As it turned out, they weren’t, so I went home emptyfooted. Drat and dash and double damned hamsterlings.

I hope Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, is enjoying his time down there, and my dead-and-gone brother Grårp, and of course poor, poor Mr. Wilson, and Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger (the haberdasher). The tortures of hellfire are amazingly refreshing, especially when accessing broadband via one’s feet. And I hope old Beelzebub doesn’t notice I stole a Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodle for Loquisha!