Finnegan's Lunch Break
Created | Updated Jun 20, 2010
It is summer (at least, where I live), and in keeping with the summer custom of presenting the reader only with the sort of light, frothy entertainment suitable for reading by the pool – the sort that goes with your sandals-and-beach-towel frame of mind, and doesn't strain the intellectual faculties too much – I offer this little bit of fluff. Having been influenced a far-too-early age by Reader's Digest, I have written what might be mistaken for a condensed version of a well-known book. My apologies, as the original is much, much funnier.
Enjoy your reading. Just don't get the laptop wet.
...riverdance, past Mistress Murphy's chowder emporium, down to where a diller a dollar the five-o'clock shadow dancer skips small sound stones across the kidney pool, trinken a trunken. Sic transit Gloria of a solemn Grundy, and why the divil would you want to, anyway, seein' as how you've never the ready for the rough of the keltie klippie's tongue-bashing when you've albut lost your last John Groat for the fair? Rumpty dumped the sump pump down i' the cellar wi' the praties, oh, but didnae she tell ye that cawbennabbage wouldna bile?
Thaur is no whaur in the hausfrauschloss of mirth, nor occident in the primological soap of the spaniard, gracious. Me. Whyever not begone betimes, when awl the augur has to ask your painful pinhead is, how many is forty-twa? The pipes, the papes, the pope is the awning, sir: whyever not, wan a' the werelt gnaws its ane tepid simony? I ask you, nu: showed you growl with your haid in the grund, ower take up the sau's souse sauce cry, babby? Six mower weaks is six lawn beg. Whyinnit?
The pikes, the pikes will go there in the lowering of the mound, albeit mony's the moth here's son would rawther view the veil the keep of kept animalcules in the zoosystical systemic guard, eins. Zwei. Drei. Fore and all. Wha' spirits be ye a-playin' at when ye beekeep, or naught? Bea thunk it prevision of the preversion, but it was aversity in the midst o forty-two dudes. At last, so eye thocht.
The reign it rheineth awe the day we burnt the bread the cleave the clef the kleptobismuth of the illegoallergicogorical. Wash it dun and whisht your key. Two privates? Oui. Combing in dutcher quarter, leasing the kopjes hang in, the geyser, the gazer has lost his nappy hat, and didn't ken but he shone up in the 'puter...alackraday, walt is it you? Political faith is the hardest to sustinocontinence. As I believe.
Lil did we inspect (in our knead-to-gnaw bases) that the worst of the curse was git to come: the unannounceried proactive arruvial of the tree vice men (mostly xy, some zs) with the Logohejiminy faun on hey. Ann didn't that set the pidgin amaung the cattle? Lang did they waive, and lang was the scree the scrim the screed o' it, but curt and kurzery and breve the breadth of the brose (the hurrar, the hollow). We need a gnu yonker. Or me be a bronks. Cheer.
Nawtheless and uber awe less moiety Fawkes gimped awer the lay she dirge, and keys board in the springes, the moist a rainyday singer calm do wear to darn a don apparel breeks and hardspun brogues to jine the...
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