“What’s this you are writing?” the Great Gaspy snatched the sheaf of paper from my finger with a mighty plowing of festering snot. I plumped in gratification of my own success. For his continued benefit I maintained a tight-lipped, somewhat beaten and guilty look on my wizened visage. Actually my visage was not wizened at all, only in my imaginings. Wizened and weathered and craggy like a hungry old hen fighting with he claw and beak for a molecule of worm arse.
“Nothing Sir.” I squeaked, pretending to swallow a massive lump of unease and raw animal terror into my palm (not really, eh. But still).
“Tingaling,” Gaspy wheezed “Did you learn nothing in last semester’s lessons on the predilection of anal penetration in modern kiwi meerkat populations?”
“What?” He began and then finished. It was a very short question.
“It seems.” Smirkled the Greatest of all Gaspies “That Mr.Duckplucker here has been maintaining a line of words – on paper no less.” Gaspy waved the sheaf above his head for every scared silent member of the assembly. Not eliciting the jeers, cheers or gasps (his favorites) he was expectorating.
Gaspy moved on to the main course of this diet of personal deconstructionism. “I shall read from Mr. Dumpybum’s line of words.” He smoothed the ultra-smooth papier with a non-crusty digit. “Ahem. Well then” Gasp gasp gasp. “You HAVE been a naughty naughty little toad, haven’t you?”
