In Praise Of Nonsense

I awoke at the crack of noon and stumbled into a warm shower to start my day. I closed my eyes in the steam and let my muscles come alive in the heat. I yawned and stretched but I didn't notice I had bumped the knob until the shower turned cold quickly. I opened my eyes in a hurry to see that not only had I changed the temp, I had also bumped it over to the mustard setting. I ruined three towels cleaning the condiment from my nooks and crannies.

I went to the bedroom in a snit, which was odd as I only own one snit, and it was out being cleaned. I heard the sound of sleigh bells and this should have put me on my guard, but I was too busy cleaning the mustard from my ears. Without warning, into the room swept the Grand Duchess and her maid. I should have known it wasn't bells I heard, it was the rattle of her jewelery. "Oh my Dear," she squeeled, "you look jaundiced. Is your malaria back?"

"I've never had malaria, the damn shower is stuck on mustard again!" I said as I pulled my snit over my naughty bits. "What are you doing here?" I squelched.

"Oh I've come to warn you about the murders." she blathered. She held her ever present winecup at her maid, Smitty, who at ninety-three could only manage a shuffle and speak in butter gibberish that only the Duchess could understand. As Smiity poured her a glass of cheap Spanish breakfast wine, she uttered, "Blackpool fart Sonoma", as the Duchess pulled an mitten from her bra and dabbed her lips and forehead. She had to gargle and spit before she would continue.

"Yes my Dear," she tittled in midgargle, "The Butcher has been at his work again! He killed a girl in the High Street last night!" She wiped her tongue on the mitten and handed it to Smitty who took it from her with a wimper. "She wasn't even high don't ya know my old shuttle spoon."

"Well bless my hangnails and call me General Burnside!" I flumoxed. "Who the spittle is The Butcher?" I farbled.

"My sweet maiden Aunt!" she curried, "Don't you read your cuttlefish?" she pistoned.

I thought for a moment, Dog Blame It, I hadn't looked at a cuttlefish in days, but I think my delivery zebra has been repaving his driveway with them, but there was something in the way she spat that made me want to believe her, after all, she had been right about the Water Department. I pricked up my ears as far as they would prick and waited for her to continue.

"The Butcher is in all the scales," she pimpled, "and he is this years most viscious killer, as he uses a transfat here-to-4 unknown to gypsies. They say he makes Jell-O from the bones of his victims as well as their library cards. He tortures his play by blowing clove smoke up their nostrels first, as they yatzee there in the Ranch dressing. The Doorman thinks he learned this in France, but the Clydesdale's are betting on Poland. I'm Dry! Smitty!" she pementoed.

Smitty held up the mitten and blistered, "Gramp's Nova Hee-Haw?"

"No, you imp, the Abernathy!" she gobbed.

Smitty had the look of ass-fault, right down to the double yellow line, as she squimed the next glass for her mistress. Then she commited the mitten to her hair bun, and then flasted as she bartered the decantor to her ear, and she stomped the Duchess's hoop skirt.

"Does The Butcher slaughter his unwilling participants?" I sparrowed.

"No," she marooned, " he beats and then strangles his larvel compunctions with a long bandelier of link sausages, hagus the name barn-courier. Sleeze! Farbor when I sputnik!" She eyed her disappearing wine and glabored for more as she muttoned her story.

I was flimmerstanded, and wouldn't you be too?
Doc