Nonsense Sermonizing

(I gotta do more of this!)

Omigod Sconfitter wallooned four pudgemuffins into a grangish grey Flexpool. It was Augustus 32, Year of the Yade. Deltavoid V Waxcollar was droopydrunk and brimstoned. He dangled a fist and bellowed, disneyfied his sermonizing, occlusions included, bombastardizations aplenty and befouled his flock with tactic unfit for happy dwarves and slabbed out the aforementioned undulating dreck.

By then Microeconecronomics had filtered to the tittletelligentsia, half-knackered with doom nuggets and drunk on pigeon-livered, duck-gizzarded bronchial eructations and horseradish greyneck.

Reverend Waxcollar exhaled insults instantaneously: “You scud! Pale movenpickles! Enemies of omnipleasance! Chad-dimpled democratizers, hiding half-chosen presidents and worse!”

Waxcollar heaved his totem and bangled the podium. The congregionals cooed twittery chattervanilla. “Far flung goulash,” he continued, “– what you will get. So it is, dreampuffs, kaleido-decadecisionery, all fake figments of the opiated opinionator. Clicked to the dicks and scrolled to the bowels – shut your macbooks and breathe afield freshivity.”

The crowd crowed; Waxcollar was looped to the gills, depillocked but unbowed. (Though if any were harrumphing it’d’ve been big loud beat-threats conking confidence hastifying rapid retreat.)

“Often ghosts mist up the mirrors,” continued the Sweaty Shamu. “Shamble away before whispering woe. I have eleventeen twenty-four packs of alcoholic advices – left to your devices your sinnicysm suffices.Will I tolerate this state of the inebriate? No, not unless the hour is too late. There it is. Checkmate!”

[to be continued, oh yes...]