FAIRLY TALL

by Galen Fott (who I just discovered is a real person)

(I have had this typed out on two pieces of (now) very old, faded, ragged, stained, and ripped pieces of typing paper since I was in junior high, but I don’t remember where I got it from. It’s possibly from a play of skits that my best friends were in. It always makes me laugh.)

Lunga, lunga ego, when you were late yards old, or even flea, you gloved to glisten to fairly talls, didn’t you? Quell, here’s an udder one—bud this one is SNIFFERENT!

Once a puddle time, a lunga lunga time ego, their wasp a printercess what laved her life in an ivorly towel. She was most unhappy, and long to seascape two to beg ortside whirl. Yards and yards passed. At no time did a ransom plintz come to rascal her and take her awry. One fin day, the goldem printercess heard some hoofsteeps clapping right under her ivorly towel.

“Rumpelstylskin,” killed out the plintz (for that was the printercess’s nomenclatter), “Rumpelstylskin—leaden your hear, so thus I clyde thigh goldem stare,” crawled the plintz poetically.

She deed.

The hearse came ut first, fellowed with the plintz, who’s name was Plintz Charmin. The hearse was collared Spud.

“Nice view! exhaled Spud.

All of a suddeath, the Kink hollowed out, “O, dottle dear, I’m coming ut two c u!”

“My graces,” inhaled Spud, “What ull the Kink thing when he despises me up here?”

“He’ll probably shut out,” applied the printercess.

“What is this sheer hearse doing up here?” exclaimed the Kink.

The plintz jumped at ther widow to safely.

“Sew much for hem,” remade the Kink.

Thus spode the printercess: “And now, my ditty, my patter, my plop—four two many yards all together now I have been cooped up in this ivorly towel. I wheel get atop o tee hearse and rum you dawn, I wheel.”

And with a Harley Heigh Hoe Hearse, th printercess rammed hair feather oval, which mad him very angry and dead.

The plintz worst wading ortside. He lepered onto the hearse behimd the printercess. They spode away.

The capple lived in the printz’s costle for quiet a will, as they would. All was at peaceful, but there was a nick at the door. In walzted seven little min, whose nomens were Gruppy, Hippy, Prancer, Bushfull, Blitzen, Duck, and Mopey.

“Hello,” said the seven little min, all for once. The Duck stooped out. He quote: “Ghoul day, my dam. We are the seven or so little droves, and have come to leave with you. So long as we reside in your aboat, good floor-shine will befall on you. But, howevil, you musk know one think: all droves are alluregic to frolgs. Oblong as you keep all frolgs out of the costle, weed shout stay.”

And so, off course, the plintz’s plintzdeom flourished and prepostered, due to the drove’s good loak sharm. Everly mourning, the droves went orf to work in a shoe shob, and they would comb home to a dinner propelled by the printercess’s royal servits. Once the servits almosk served frolg legs for finner, but locally the printercess stooped them in time.

One day, the plintz desidled to invite a live-lung frond, another plintz, to spend some thyme at his costle. This other plintz, named Plintz Todd, was very jelly and leffing. The verly day he derived, the plintzdom began to grumble. The draw bilge stuck, the mode flooded, and the plintz’s crowd fell of his head. And, worst awful, the fateful hearse Spud cooked the buggit. Midwhile, the printercess had growed least and least fond of Plintz Charmin, and more and more fond of Plintz Todd. It seams that the plintz had become a mizer and was now verily gritty. He worst always in the dungeon, courting his many. This leaved the printercess plenty of thyme to strook up a real Asian ship with Todd. But the costle was still grumbling.

The droves reparted to the printercess that a frolg had squeeshed his way insight of the costle. Batcherally, the royal capple sixspected Plintz Todd of kipping a pit frolg with him. His roob was searched thoreauly, but only a pear of alligrator shoes were find. They were set sapphire and burd to ashes.

Yet, still more tragiltees happied. The droves gave a warming: unless the frolg was found and got red of in tree days, they would pick up their bugs and leaf, causing a navel-ending doom to curtsey the plintzdom.

The plintz and the printercess and all the royal servits surged the empire costle, every neck and granny, every creak and corder, but there wasp no frolg to be find. At the end of tree days, the droves did indeed leaf, and the minuet the last drove, Mopey, leafed the costle, it grumbled to the groaned, kilting the plintz. The printercess and Plintz Todd were out in the guarding plating fowlers when the torrible accent befell the plintz. The printercess, who had grewed to hate him, celebrated, and lightly kicked Plintz Todd. At the intact of her kick, Todd exploited and turnd to a toad.

“Why,” quoth the printercess, “You oar reilly the Frolg Plintz.”

“Ribbit,” quoth the Frolg Plintz, as he would and boundeled away from the grumbled costle he had destroyed and the comatoed printercess, never to be seed again.

Which just goes to show you.

Mood: silly
Music: John Mayer—My Stupid Mouth