See how many bad puns you can spot!
I'm sure you Thoreau-ly enjoy Hemming your Way through every dress you fabric-ate. Orwell I'm sure it's sew fun, except when you Shake the cloth around and get Speare-ed by all the pins and needles. Hugo-mongous pain, that is. When it happened to me, it Tolkien hour for the pain to go away. It was too much: I just fell apart at the seams. One time, 42 of those awful needles hit Douglas' Adam's apple and then Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest, out the window. He was always such a Poe-et and loved to tell stories, but after that injury, he never really got the Tell Tale Heart back.
His friends started to doubt his ability to tell stories. Marcus asked, "Aur-you-Relius a poet, Douglas?"
In response, he would say, "Asimov-er of fact, Isaac at poetry."
He used to have so much pride in his work. Now, his friends' Prejudice was cruel. Francis never even let him have any Bacon, anymore.
It was worse when he thought he saw a flying Chaucer, but the people at the Church on the Hill didn't believe him. Due to the throat injury and paranoia over the UFO, he would occasionally wake up at night and scream in that Horace voice of his, "E! E! They're Cummings!" His parents tried to Emers their Son in where's Waldo books, especially after the Frost hit the ground, killing his newly-planted vegetables, causing him much Paine.
He eventually Goethe fatal form of cancer and died. Sadly, his friends re-Joyce-ed.
I'm sure you Thoreau-ly enjoy Hemming your Way through every dress you fabric-ate. Orwell I'm sure it's sew fun, except when you Shake the cloth around and get Speare-ed by all the pins and needles. Hugo-mongous pain, that is. When it happened to me, it Tolkien hour for the pain to go away. It was too much: I just fell apart at the seams. One time, 42 of those awful needles hit Douglas' Adam's apple and then Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest, out the window. He was always such a Poe-et and loved to tell stories, but after that injury, he never really got the Tell Tale Heart back.
His friends started to doubt his ability to tell stories. Marcus asked, "Aur-you-Relius a poet, Douglas?"
In response, he would say, "Asimov-er of fact, Isaac at poetry."
He used to have so much pride in his work. Now, his friends' Prejudice was cruel. Francis never even let him have any Bacon, anymore.
It was worse when he thought he saw a flying Chaucer, but the people at the Church on the Hill didn't believe him. Due to the throat injury and paranoia over the UFO, he would occasionally wake up at night and scream in that Horace voice of his, "E! E! They're Cummings!" His parents tried to Emers their Son in where's Waldo books, especially after the Frost hit the ground, killing his newly-planted vegetables, causing him much Paine.
He eventually Goethe fatal form of cancer and died. Sadly, his friends re-Joyce-ed.
When I was young I used to Levine a town called Mell-ville that was such a Nietzsche place to live. I enjoyed listening to the Camp-bell that went off every morning after the Whit-mens sang a Song of Myself. I would often visit Uncle Tom's Cabin where I could Stowe away my thoughts in the Beecher tree. Sometimes it would talk back and say that I needed to be Franklin with myself. Kate would be Chopin' her vegetables inside and yelling, "One of these days they are going to Arist-totle when he doesn't pick up his stinky Socra-Te's or his messy Plato! " But she'd get distracted when she realized her Bacon was Browning too much. But then she'd trip over Tol'stoys and Peaces of War machinery. This would cause her to turn new Hughs of Pascal colors. "Locke him up and Thoreau away the key! Please!" She would cry.
ReplyDeleteG, Wells, that was fantastic. :)
ReplyDeleteIf I were a cow, I would even call it utterly fantastic.
ReplyDeleteThis whole blog post + comments needs to go in a museum.
ReplyDelete