The Crayfish Food Hullabaloo (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CCCLXXXII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney (we are not told what happened to Chapter CCCLXXXI–must’ve been a non-starter), Violet Crepuscular reveals that the two rival Scotland Yard detectives have succeeded in framing each other for the theft of the locomotive. Both are carted off to Newgate Prison, and Lord Jeremy finally comes down from the tree where he’s been hiding. All we are told about that is, “He came down like rain.” Only raindrops don’t wind up swathed in bandages from head to toe.

Constable Chumley is interrupted in dictating his memoirs to the Wise Woman of the Gaol by a controversy centered in the Scurveyshire pet shop, where Lady Margo Cargo’s crusty butler, Crusty, has been trying to buy food for his mistress’ pet crayfish, Oswin. Distracted by the rantings and ravings of the prisoner who has been moved from the jail to the pet shop, Crusty has mistakenly bought the wrong kind of food but now can’t get his money back. Unable to break up the argument, Constable Chumley arrests them both and brings them to Lord Jeremy’s bedside. Ms. Crepuscular has had a devilish time trying to type the word “bedside.” It keeps coming out “bedides” or “bdesdie,” etc.

“Ivver yon greeth wi’ hammels, m’lord,” Chumley explains.

Crusty and the shop owner, one Samuel Heathen, yell and scream at each other. As justice of the peace, Lord Jeremy has the power to put both of them to death. He is reluctant to use it, however. Lady Margo would never forgive him for having Crusty thrown to the shire’s ferocious pug dogs, and Mr. Heathen owes him several guineas.

“Can’t we all just get along?” he groans.

“This caitiff asked for King-Size Slo-Gro Depilatory Crayfish Food, and that’s what I sold him!” roars Mr. Heathen.

“I never asked for Slo-Gro! I asked for Go-Gro!” growls Crusty.

With wisdom rivaling Solomon’s, Lord Jeremy faints.

The matter will be taken up again, Mr. Crepuscular assures us, in the next exciting chapter.

Maskulimity it Has got To go!!!!

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This hear gye he wood “be” Oh-Kay iff he whuz a Wimmin!

Heer at Collidge our Stoodint Soviet we “has maid” A Grate Desission!!! We “are” goingto Out-Law Maskulimity and Ban it tooo!!!!

So fromb nhow On thare woont be enny Maskulimity heer,, all “the” mails thay whil has to ware Dresses and aslo lippstick and wotch chick Flicks al day!!!! and iff we ketch enny gye waring pants unlest It “is” “a” Pants Soot lyke Hilary he whil be In “big” trubble!!!!!! Sicks Munths of Sencertivvaty Traning!! and aslo he wil ottomatickly Flunk al his coarses!!!!

We “are” dooing This four Socile Jutstus!!! We hased one gye his naim it was Steeve and we maid himb chainge “It” to Looseel”!”

We has “lurnt” That al “the” Prombles of The Whorld thay “are” al cawsed by Maskulimity!! Poberty and dizzeez and War and beeing Short it is al The Fawlt of Maskulimity!!!! So iff yiu Get Ridd “of” that then yiu Get Ridd “of” evry-thing!!!!

Thjat it wil be Our Neckst Projjeck–geting Rid Of Evry-Thing!!!!

Constable Chumley’s Memoirs (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Introducing Chapter CCCLXXX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular candidly confides in her readers, “Dear Reader, I would not wish you to form the impression that life in Scurveyshire is one of unremitting stress. Normal things happen, too.” She has apparently forgotten the two Scotland Yard detectives who are trying to frame each other for the theft of a locomotive.

One of these soothingly normal things that are happening is, as the chapter’s title might suggest (although you can never be entirely sure about what Ms. Crepuscular’s titles really indicate)–ta-dah! Constable Chumley is writing his memoirs.

Having forgotten how to read and write, he is actually dictating them to the Wise Woman of the Woods, who is now the Wise Woman of Scurveyshire Gaol: she likes it there and refuses to return to the forest.

“Willaday yaither mon greezen hoy, dray boddy, ma’ doon,” he begins. After an hour of listening to this–the Wise Woman peppers the constable with questions about spelling and grammar, which he is not equipped to answer–the prisoner in the adjacent cell goes totally mad and has to be moved to the pet shop. There he encounters Lady Margo Cargo’s crusty old butler, Crusty, who has been sent to buy crayfish food for his mistress’ pet crayfish, Oswin.

“Can’t anyone stop that man from raving?” he inquires testily: for the prisoner is still quite beside himself. The shop owner only shrugs. “It seems Constable Chumley’s discourse is too much for this poor chap,” he says. “Do you want regular Crayfish Chow, or menthol?”

“Menthol,” grumbles Crusty.

“King-size or Economy-size?” This goes on for longer than the chapter lasts.

Quokka U. Fundraiser: ‘False Facts Galore’

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G’day! Byron the Quokka here. And the girl in the picture is named Proserpina (Annie for short): she was Miss Rottnest in 2017, and she’s here to tell you about Quokka University’s latest fund-raiser–False Facts Galore!

G’day, everybody, I’m chaaaahmed to be here! Hey, you can really go to town with False Facts Galore–more whoppers, more pure misinformation, than ever before! Your friends will be simply amazed by all these things you know, that they never heard of.

Without further ado, here are a few of my favorites. Don’t worry–there’s a whole box of brand-new False Facts cards! You won’t run out of ’em in a hurry!

Just clear your throat and let ‘er rip!

*Annie the Quokka invented shoe polish in 2014. (That’s my No. 1 fave!)

*The source of the Congo River is at Schenectady, New York.

*More people with functional third eyes live in Indianapolis than anywhere else in the world.

*The Krnitzle Potato Bug of South Israel is able to respond to verbal commands given by any human being that can imitate its mating call. But really, it’s not worth doing.

*Mail-in voting is perfectly safe from fraud.

*The ancient Romans had no vowels in their language until a man named Alvin forced them to add some.

Of course I could’ve spent all day sharing these wonderful False Facts, guaranteed to be 100% Truth-Free… but then you might not want to shell out twenty bucks to buy a set. All the money will go to fund Quokka U.’s guest speaker program. Honest.

This Hear Prefesser she Is rihght!!!! thay shood All Die!!

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We helded a spacial meting Tooday “of the” Stoodint Soviet to de-manned that our Collidge thay Hier a prefesser who sayed she Hoaps evry boddy whoo is four Donold Trumpt thay alll gets Sick and dies befour The Elecksion!!! (https://www.campusreform.org/?ID=15726)

Wood yiu beleave It??? that thare stopid Collidge thay kickeded her Out “of” her Own Class Roomb becose she sayed That!!!! Whatt a buntch Of Biggits!! and Haters!!!!

Wel wee shore cood Use her heer!!! She Is ovviusly Wyse And Goood!!

And a nother Thing we jist thawt of,, iff all themb eavle Trumpt voaters thay get The Vyris and Dye,,, then the Rest Of us we cood taik “alll” thair Munny “and” alll thair Stuph!!!!! Immajin if we cood has thair Howses “and” thair Carrs “and” “aslo” al thair Viddio Gayms!!! It wood “be” A Grate Day four Socile Jutstus!!!!!!

We has got to Get ridd “of” al themb Haters “and” Biggits,; and we was hoaping The Vyris it wood make themb al diye or mayby Pressadint Obomma he “wood” Do it!!!! How cood thay putt her On leeve???? Thay must bee “the” Biggist Haters arownd!@!!!

Boy howe i Hate thoze Haters!!!! thay maik my blud boyle!!!!!!!!!!

 

The Vicar’s New Delusion (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CCCLXXVIII (don’t you just love those Roman numerals? imagine having to use them to do trigonometry) of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular reveals a revelation.

The vicar has emerged from his conniptions with a new delusion. He now believes himself to be Wally Moon, a 20th century American baseball player who is still many years from being born.

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“I cannot overstate the importance of this!” Ms. Crepuscular remarks in an aside to the reader. “I make this remark in an aside to you, dear reader, because I wish to stress the importance of the name ‘Moon.’ Why the Moon? Why not Mars, or Jupiter, or some other heavenly body? But you will excuse me while I dash into the kitchen to check on my toothpaste tarts.” The next two pages are left blank to represent her absence.

The vicar is confused because he has never heard of baseball; consequently, he does not know what to do. But he does know what he cannot do.

“I am sorry, Lady Margo,” he tells her, “but you are much mistaken in believing me to be your vicar. In identifying myself as Wally Moon, whoever he is, I cannot perform your marriage ceremony.”

He would say more, but at this point Constable Chumley arrests him for impersonating an unborn foreign athlete. Scurveyshire has an ordinance against that, going back to the 13th century. “A’ blithely mack yon frisky glames,” he explains.

With the two Scotland Yard detectives trying to frame each other for the disappearance of the locomotive under the vicar’s backyard wading pool, Lord Jeremy Coldsore feels he can now safely climb down from the tall tree in which he has taken refuge. Imagine his distress when he discovers that he can’t.

“Jist come down the way you went up, ol’ hoss,” advises his bosom friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley. Here Ms. Crepuscular intervenes again.

“I do not mean to imply that Lord Jeremy has anything that we might properly refer to as a bosom,” she writes. And then: “Oh, no! My tarts are burning!” She rushes off to the kitchen again, leaving the rest of the chapter to the readers’ imaginations.

‘In the Year 2030…’ (2016) [with prayer request]

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This essay was posted just as *Batteries Not Included’s second term was winding down and an even worse monster was expected by all prognosticators to replace him.

In the Year 2030…

It gives me pleasure to recall that I was predicting, in June of that year, and in print for everyone to see, that Donald Trump would be our next president. But really, those eight Obama years were a downer for normal people and it was easy to get depressed.

We pray the Lord our God will again intervene to save this country: not for our sake, because we are sinners and have not yet come to terms with that, but for His own great name’s sake: so that all the world can see, Lord, what you do, and that the world might know that you are God. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Joe Collidge Discovers Cryptozoology

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I wented to “a” reel kool lexture “last” nihght it was all abuot a New Scyints i has nevver herd “Of” it is caled Clepto-Zoo-Olligy! Oar somb thing “lyke” That!!

Did yiu know thare is aminals alll Over “the” Whirld that noboddy thay has sceen themb befour??? Somb of themb is Dynasores and Willy mammeths but somb of themb “thay” are smawl aminals and clepto zooollagists thay “Are” loocking al Over “the” plaice to fyned themb!!!!

We seen a Lot “of” slydes of theeze Secret Creetchers lyke :the “ones” up thare In the Pixture,, i hasnt nevver sceene nothing Like themb befour,, thay live Up In “The” deeep wooulds ware thare “is” aslo Big Foot and Choopa Capra and the Lock Nest Manster!!!!! Somboddy whoo was jist “a” Biggit “and” a Hater he sayed thay “are” Ownly plane old Rabbets so we beet himb up,, that is reel Socile Jutstus!!!!

Heer is anether Clepto Aminal.

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At frist i thinked I sceene One “Of” theeze onct rihght hear On Our Campis it was clyming “a” Treee but ackturally it is a Seecrit Clepto Zology Creetcher it livves in Affricker and the Naytivves thay are al Afrayed of it!!!! The lexture sayed it jist gose “To Shoh” that thare is Seecrit Creetchers evry ware!!!

The lexture thay sayed theeze aminals thay Are Prooof that Evilusion it is Reel and evin Peeple thay are goingto Evolve “into” somb thing Elsse so i amb goingto Keep a Iye out fore “it”!!!!!!

Pottos on the Rampage!

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Pottos all over the world are enraged about there being even any question about allowing them to enroll in Quokka University. Throwing bricks, setting fires, letting crocodiles loose from zoos–Mostly Peaceful Pottos (MPPs) are tearing the world apart.

The Mostly Peaceful Pottos say they won’t stop until they get everything they want. Humans are warned not to travel alone in the treetops. If you must creep from tree to tree, clinging to and swinging from the branches, try to do it during the day when most pottos are asleep.

A spokesquokka for Quokka University, Emma the Quokka, said she and her fellow board members were “terribly disappointed that this sort of controversy should occur before we open our very first semester. Nobody said we wouldn’t admit pottos! Honestly, the subject never came up–until now.”

Any decision, she added, will be deferred until after the quokkas hold their annual Fli-Back Paddle Ball Tournament.

Should Pottos Be Admitted to Quokka University?

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Hardly anybody’s here today, so I guess it’s safe to discuss a burning issue that threatens to tear the world of higher education right down the middle.

Should they let pottos take courses at Quokka University?

Opinion is divided between “What’s a potto?” and “Who cares?” Which camp do you belong to?

Important question for any readers who might show up this morning:

Is it okay now for people who are not in the NBA to play basketball, provided they wear masks and observe Social Distancing? True, it would make playing defense virtually impossible; but who bothers to play defense anymore?