Tuesday, April 01, 2008
The one-hundred-and-twelfth post
Ahem. Pondering once more whenct I have came to come before you, you see, it is very taxing. Taxing even for a specimen unbottled of unparallel smartitude of which as you see before all of you children. But barrel and carry it I must, this weight of a thousand yokes, as I ponderous bring unto you the happy tiding of, once more, a completely normal post. Random is out. I am in! And I bring much of the muchy muchness of glad things and whatnot and so forth! Getting back in line, I add that Steven Spielberg does not knowingly associate with this... stuff. I do not know why.
Adjusticating my special reading glasses, I am have coming to the conclusion that you sweet cheeked ninnies still contain no iotical comprehension of the geniosity of him which is that me. I! Cower and tremble mighty mortally. Send all fan mail to my humble advisable lackeys to deal with. I of course cannot be bothered to sort through such a hill-mountain myselves. Carry on with your wildnesses of inuderstandability. Back to the rotten routine shall be mercifully mercifal and slash or sweet. For tonight we dine in a smoking-free zone. The end is nigh.
TODAY'S BOOK: "Honor to the Hills", by Eileen Charbonneau ((c) 1996)
Labels: april fool