Words are sewn together
Corpusculated on November 30, 2025.
Hop! Jump! Avunculate! Subjunctivate! Corpusculate! Immaculate!
On this glorious fifth Sunday, let us remember that Thanksgiving was last week and I had nary a thank to give! I did have some rats’ asses, though. But I wouldn’t give those up—not for the entire world at my stubby fingertips.
If this entry isn’t exactly two hundred and fifty words, I’ll dight a goose! I’ll feague that little honker until he walks duck-legged!
Hop! Jump! Avunculate! Subjunctivate! Corpusculate! Craptaculate!
Thanksgiving came and went—through the Dumble Door, stumbling and bumbling—while Becasue ambled about my palatial domicile all duck-legged herself. I honked, she honked, the whole neighborhood honked while the roof ripped off and a tornado tore down Bouillabaisse Boulevard like a drunken blogger with a sharpened thesaurus and nothing to lose. (Not me, the other drunken blogger.)
Those mating cavatappi fell down a manhole cover and continued their sweaty, grunting business underground. Immersed in the mire of a thousand blue-gold stars, they—along with 168,000 rodents each sporting a different kind of comically erudescent ball gag—whirled and twirled as corkscrew pasta come to life are wont to do. But I won’t do it. (Do a pair of pasta, that is.) I have my soft, squishy, big little redheaded huzzey-muffet to do that with instead.
Words twisted and wended their way through my senescent gray matter. Some of them made it to my stubby fingertips. Some of them didn’t. (Those came out my nose, instead. Along with the demons.)
Hop!