The Flensing of the Barleypop Bung Truffle and the Sprunciled Dunceling

The Flensing of the Barleypop Bung Truffle and the Sprunciled Dunceling

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It was a fine day in Pseudo-Elizabethan England, and Willardslip Kempspirits was enjoying a stroll through his commodial gardens. Suddenly he happened upon Castledon Thrushfinger, rooting around unhinged amidst his prize daisies, searching for the ever-elusive bung truffle. 

"What, hey!" Willardslip trumpeted. "Tis that clapper-clawed canker blossom, Castledon Thrushfinger!" His quivering lips unfurled, revealing a splenetic visage of glistening mucilage. Willardslip knelt and whispered:

"Why must I find you mucking about and rooting around, unhinged, amongst my prizen daisies, Castledon?" 

"Ah, Willardslip Kempspirits!" Castledon bellered. "I'm merely codswalloping inside your illustrious conservatory." Castledon paused, then broke a raw sustenance of magnificent wind upon the bare naked moment. Willardslip inhaled furiously, his nostrils flaring as his lolling tongue issued forth from its cavernous confines.

"Can't you codswallop about in some other charnel house?!" Willardslip thunderated, his bubbling knuckles vibrating against the groin-ribbed, uranium-vaulted arches.

"Greetings, fellow sojourners!" ejaculated Umberleigh Porridgegorst, preempting Castledon's reply with a precisely engineered arrivance.

"I say," retorted Willardslip, "it's Umberleigh Porridgegorst! Weren't you commited to Hanwell Asylum for laying siege to a pack of retarded orphans?" Willardslip crossed his knees thrice and lingered severely. Abashedness decorated Umberleigh's spackled plumage. 

"Too true, too true," eructated Umberleigh, "but I have since taken up abode in your fine necropolis. There seem to be more jackbits lying about." Umberleigh then crushed utterly a wriggling jackbit beneath his jackboot. Willardslip frothed.

"Don't you go attacking all of my jackbits! I'm hoarding those for my dearest Ellisweal Complingreaves! May her muculent pulchritude illuminate the vilest water closet!" Umberleigh absorbed this withering volley abrunst his forward jowels and throughout his jiggling lipids. The ensorsceled silence bloomed as Umberleigh collapsed, stricken.

The moment was punctured by a rustling from the daisies. Castledon's head sprang forth, the limp form of a freshly beshitted bung truffle clenched between his jaws. He glanced rapidly back and forth from Willardslip to Umberleigh and back to Willardslip. Suddenly Castledon emitted a sharp yip and vanished into the dense foliage. 

"Castledon!" Willardslip vociferated. "Why are you still flailing about like a witless whittering weevil in my ployandrium?!"

"These jackbits have absquatulated with the bung to my barleypop drum!" returned the muffled voice. "So shall this bung truffle endure perpetual flensing in miserable servitude, as I abscond with it now!" 

"Just you mind my prize daisies!" harrumphed Willardslip. 

"Fuck your prize daisieeeees..." 

Castledon's cry diminished as he rustled away beneath the horizon, leaving behind a swath of devastation. 

Willardslip seized. His eyes rolled backward and began to spin, and tendrils of smoke wafted from his tear ducts. With a mighty thunderclap, Willardslip's spinning eyeballs broke the sound barrier and burst into flame.

"Oh, does he mean these prize daisies?" announced Umberleigh, as he trod upon them with wild abandon. 

"Yes, those daisies," Willardslip acknowledged, hellfire raging in the scorched caverns of his eye sockets. Umberleigh gulped. A moist, bubbly sound emerged from his pharyngeal gill slits. 

Later that afternoon, Lucifred Privywhistle looked up from her kneevil whittering. 

"My dear Terdswurth, could you fetch me a twelve kneeviled whittering wheedle?" 

"My dear Lady Lucifred! That's the fourteenth twelve kneeviled whittering wheedle you've unwoveled for fourteen fortnights!" Terdswurth Flaerlingsnip, aghast, retorted. The Lady Privywhistle was inconsolable. 

"Damn you and your imperturbable politics!" she ululated, and collapsed into an atomic pile. Discombobulated, Terdswurth dispatched a whittering wheedle toward his besmirched love and into her Isle of Langerhans. 

"Recover, my lovelyleast, recover!" Terdswurth crepitated. "Twas the loinsloughing of our tenderlust bludsporte which unscrubbled me momentarily! She means to consummate The Flensing of the Sprunciled Dunceling on the flying buffoon for the swarthy footed pygmy procession! I can tease no sense unto the width of her addled brainage!" 

Suddenly Castledon Thrushfinger appeared in the midst of the wheedling lair. "Hark and harketh!" crowed Castledon. 

"He who howls, dare I hardly hearken, for I knowethest not who hurls this hearkening!" yawped Lucifred. 

"Tis I, Phlegmsley Scroggsbottle!" Castledon retaliated. Terdswurth cast about the caboose like a lunatician, espying Castledon in the midst.

"What ho, Castledon!" Terdswurth acknowledged. "I fear my Lady Lucifred hath been perced to the root with a whittering wheedle!" Castledon munched his bung truffle, thoughtfully. 

"To the charnel house!" he ejaculated.

So it was that Lydlycke Follyspirits Fevergrave raveled the funeral barge of the Sprunciled Dunceling, following the apocalypse of the swarthy footed midgets. There were no survivors. His Lordship Chuddlewick Churlingdearth the Congealed is said to have wept a fine, clear mucus from his grief bebeveled schnoz.