Charming, as they would usually say. No, not “they” as in those gum-toed nutjobs who always go around making their piddly business the front page news for the neighborhood. I’m referring to the more discerning whackadoodles. You know the ones, the jobbers who really grind your corkscrews. They just get your goat so profoundly that it becomes insanely difficult to express your displeasure with standard colloquialisms.
Stormy in-beveraged descrutinizers wallow merrily, filthier than the average pear, sleazier than a locomotive (though we never quite figured out just how sleazy a locomotive could be until we took a cross-country trip by rail–what a lovely jaunt that was, a trek for the ages; we ate cheese and discussed crouton dissection techniques).
Blorn out and hungstraddled, a ginger poof of plume-riveted magic lit its last-ever candle with no background fanfare whatsoever. Nobody gave it a second thought, save the ghost of the mouse that got crushed in the grate while it was only trying to scurry on along, minding its own business. But the rodent business ain’t as lucrative as it used to be, friend. I should know, I read it in a book at some point. I’m a regular Reading Rainbow enthusiast. Ain’t you heard? Damn.