Dear Friends,

I am hope you are not cry of the way my typing put words to the eyes of you. I am decide that because the news is hurt my nostrils very ouch this month year, I have been wanted to make laugh with bad of the English using practice (or maybe malpractice). Also seldom but often I must invent words while the fingers slap this keyboard to noggle your hinterbloops until your smiling jumps backward during the Autumn Rainfall Falderal (A.R.F.). In edition butt all sew, I may place words that sound like watt I mean but are knot the write words. So today I am break from nobody’s Bahama Llamas without forcefully project flotation of sinking waterlogged pretzel carriers. You, of all, people. Know what I mean? Isn’t it confusing! When someone punctuates a sentence! Incorrectly even though it is really? A sentence fragment?? And therefore not a sentence? At all??

This instantly although very, very, slowly reminds me of the bad usage. Of commas. Or the forgetting. Of them. For the example, I will bring to your face the intentions of my example that below this typing of total barf-a-roo is crumpling.

Hear now is foopy example of a comma prevention of death of elders:

Let’s eat Grandma!! (Are we to really devour Grandma??)

Let’s eat, Grandma!! (Oh Holy Wow!! C’mon Grandma, let’s stuff face!!)

So as you can see, Grandma’s life was saved by the insertion of a comma into the sentence; because it’s well known that cannibals have always been stopped dead in their tracks by commas while small birds flopped luminously through inverted snack tables made of inferior materials that have often been referred to as pure junk, but what the hey we got them at BugMart for the mere price of $12.37 with tax and why not try them out on those silly birds who obviously don’t even know they’re stuck in this ridiculous run-on sentence which is yet another example of very bad use of sentence structure and therefore slapping impudence in the face of any professor who may be reading this on the subway.

Thank you.

Yew sea, my goal in this small part of my life is two inject poorly amplified participles into the brains of others while they are going working on burned toast while saying things like “hey all these participles are making my face say things I normally wood knot say.” And if I have convinced both of you to slurp loudly while eating a stalk of salary, well of coarse I have accomplished my task of beaming subliminal sectional sofa repair instructions into your daily speech repertoire.

You may thank me someday for this.

I must Finnish this silly scribbling now, as I fear that any further exposure to such garbonkulous yet stinky crabless salad may damage your hematoma. Sew I will clothes with the old saying that I invented many yargons ago but has failed to become a meme:

“It’s better to be you than for you to be me, and although you can count to it, EIGHT is a word.“

Thank you, and please slide safely through the slimy hallways of life.

Yours with no socks,

Rambledork G. Phlegmfinder

a.k.a. “Herbert The Human Cat”

Here I am again attempting to retrieve silly inspirational announcements from our grandsons for the purpose of overcooking a new “Happy Friday:” but this time it came at some cost, as they were unable to flagellate any wrought iron waffle cones unless I bribbled and houted first and in the beginning. I hovered under their small socks and urged them to spill forth silly things; and found myself being again the Leader Of The Weird Hello.

Therefore, it is with great indecency that I send these words to your eyes. Some of the text may have been the result of speaking gibberish into the Texting Microphone Thing (TMT) on my phone, and the result was (of course) bleeding aquamarine crayon sauce. So without any further doodley-doo, here are the silly exclamations that were harvested from the Nonsensical Neon Lantern Salad this very evening.

The smeckle smabbajoos are hunting the wild kielbasa for dinner. While they hunted they snacked on rancid chicken nuggets and drank jars of mayonnaise. Grasshopper grinned while eating drywall. The drywall tasted like rancid Snargonian Strawberries with bug Jell-O. Some of my favorite warm sauce was made of oatmeal that slept in the sewer for 14 days.

“But where did you sleep in the sewers?” they asked.

Well everybody knows that oatmeal sleeps in the light fixtures that are broken in the sewers, and when the sewer elves come to repair the damage, they go into the closest dollar store to buy delicious stink free nibblings. They especially like the stink free nibble snacks because whenever they strike a match to light a candle to fix the oatmeal lights if the nibble snacks smell bad they might cause an explosion.

Sometimes the smeckle smabbajoos sneak up on the sewer elves and throw bug Jell-O at them. When the elves turn their heads they get an earful. And then all they can hear is the munch munch munch of the grinning grasshopper as he mistakes the elves’ hats for drywall.

“Do you still happen to have those donuts?” they asked.

“Why yes I do, and I ran them through the toilet tank earlier this morning specially for you.” I screamed. “Oh you can have them then.” they barked. “But I don’t want any, because I haven’t stopped eating toilet snacks long ago,” I sneered. Suddenly, I began to speak without tongues and splashed pure gibberish into my Texting Microphone Thing (TMT).

Smurfs minigame button world will propel eggnog opposite now, and will call number again I must not.

Shambo equity past month slumber Chromeo many eggs are in the book.

That snake worm fastening ears don’t change my name I’ll kick my horse today unless I get caught in which case I will hide behind this large peppermint stick.

Fambo Namaque as probing Elmar will caption a body ache fun Zombo cowboy boots could you make money pouring in Meijer.

Next, a horribly familiar question was stretched out of the frozen toaster and into the known universe.

“But seriously do we still have those donuts?” they honked.

“Yes. They are covered with ashes because I was trying to heat treat them this morning with small pieces of pine to make them fragrant and delicious,” I shrieked. Shortly after the pine heat treatment infusion we stuffed our faces with the remaining donuts.

I commenced one last time with the TMT, but this time with a mouth full of donut molecules.

The result was:

Well from my phone from our horrible with warm mouth for our programmer.

Who/blue marsh replacement working woman Who/blue marsh group lemon working woman.

This caused all 3 both of us to make saturated laughter with great animosity.

The End.

So… how about some TV bloopers??

Well here we are again, snacking on yet another “Happy Friday!!!” episode for which I solicited creative input from my grandsons. However, their contributions were notably smaller this week due to a condition my Beautiful Honey Pie has diagnosed as “Video Game Brain.” Her diagnosis is based on the fact that when they are at Nini (pronounced NEE-nee) (and she’s also my Beautiful Girlfriend) (and she let me marry her) (and enough with the parentheses awreddy!!) and Papa’s house, they get an extra helping of screen time with their handheld face blasters. I’m sure her amputation has gotta be very correct. I know that this is true, because when asked for silly ideas to help me write a silly story, both of them struggled to provide any hilarious shopping cart infections. In reaction to their lackadaisical scorch water infusions, my Lovely Bride asked them both, “what, do you both have Video Game Brain???” Since she is a nurse (and a very good one at that), I must defer to her reprehensible punctuality.

That being said, I’m largely on my own with the writing and keyboard bopping this week. Hopefully all of you will be defended; and of course if that is the case I shall broop and geschnibble until the Lower Moon sinks into the toilet tank. Besides, if you’ve ever slept inside a small spare tire, you’d be absolutely certain that molecules smell better outside than they do inside.

So there I was, writhing in great joy on the floor, and screaming at the bottom of my lunges for any suggestions they could provide. Gabe said, “Well, I have a title. How about ‘The Banana Blobs On Vacation To India’.” “OK,” I replied. “Any other silly sentences to go with that?” “Nope,” said Gabe. After a pause, Ollie tinkled his wifflets and said, “what’s that thing… the prime meridian?” “I think that’s 0 degrees longitude,” I answered in a scholarly cabbage surprise. “Yeah!!” said Ollie. And he continued, “Pomeranians eating pickles at the prime meridian.”

Perhaps noticing that my dendrites were choking on less than fashionable pajamas, Nini brashly but randomly chimed in with a poem:

Strawberries like horse meat to eat.
Strawberries think horse meat is sweet.

Ollie followed up with a shocking revulsion: “I’d rather eat a moose!!” This caused me to pose as if I was being sculpted with a large egg beater, then I flung out a very serious question to all involved: “Does a Heffalump have a whole lump or a half a lump?” Questions such as these could of course cause a run-on sentence unless they are kept in a well lit pantry for at least 12; but when crickets finally resign from their duties as auto mechanics, only the most critical crayon rashes can prevent a hummingbird moth from knocking on xylophone bones during The Great Pine Cone Races which are held annually each year with a spacing of 12 months at a time on the order of 1/10^th of a decade and like, you know, sometimes but not really.

OK??

Yes, have some.

Alrighty then. I suppose I’ll just resume washing the television shows I very much enjoy while all the silly, battery operated concrete blocks jump wildly from lane to lane on the interstate railroads. Is any of this making sense to you? I hope not!! If you are having difficulty looking for a “hidden meaning” or some sort of “symbolic embolism” or perhaps are seeking a “rational radiator” in all of this, please mail $12.73 and 17 box tops to:

Yodel Screechers Anonymous
24-7 Wildebeest Way
Honkingtown, Indibraskalania 49001-5

Ask for Mr. Rumpkin.

I leave you now with some very undergrown words that I never but always am urging with complete indigestion:

It is always better to be you than for you to be me, and although you can count to it, “eight” is a word.

Peace, Love, and Fuzzy Earlobes,

Hyram C. Gilmore
Professor of Turnip Juice
Gutcramp University

And now for something completely different. Well, maybe not completely…

Some people need a word for the day to make the radio sauces slide briskly from under the toilet canopy. Well in my professional opinion, “bird” is not the word. No, rather the word for today (or any other day) is “bloop.” Sometimes it’s used as an exclamation, as in the case of dropping something in the water. An example: remember that one time I was with Uncle Bribblet on the dock at Zooper’s Pond? He handed me this awesome looking smellphone he just bought and went up to the house to get seconds on Aunt Meebee’s refried cabbage sticks. When he came back, I had some bad news for him: “Sorry… I had your new iPhone 27 held tightly in my grubby little mitts, but as I was leaning over the dock I was distracted by the freshwater hexagonal stickfish and BLOOP!! into the brackish water it went. I was able to get it out and I tried to dry it off in the fire, but it started to fizz and make weird popping noises.”

Uncle Bribblet was not amused.

Because I enjoy learning more about words and other household temperature measuring cups, I decided to scan the interwebs for any additional applications of the word “bloop.” Lo and behold, there was one I had never heard of before. According to Wikipedia, “Bloop was an ultra-low-frequency, high amplitude underwater sound detected by the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) in 1997.” Initially it was thought to have originated from a marine animal, but it was later determined to be sounds from glacial movement or by “seabed gouging by ice.” Well now that’s just plain fascinating!! If only I was there to enjoy the bloopening!! Perhaps I could have gotten an autograph from one of the underwater sound detection technician people persons!! Or not!!

Bloop also appears in baseball, when a batter smacks a ball just beyond the infield. And then there are bloopers in film or other video media in which mistakes are made and are presented to audiences for the humor of it all. And then there’s the use of bloop to describe a noise made by an electronic device. So yes, goys and birls, I’m stealing all these inflammable regressions from the webbernet dictionary website definition place things.

Being the drebnerflooted person I am, I have sometimes been known to utter a short, high-pitched, low volume “bloop!!” for no apparent reason. This serves no other purpose than sheer amusement for me and anyone nearby who happens to hear it. I’ve also been known to utter other inconomulous strebulations like “flarf!!” or “mozzbop!!” and perhaps even “hookonk!!” just to perplex my grandsons and any other young or otherwise height-challenged lifeforms that happen to be within earshot. Of course, few of the “words” you just read are real; but hey, if you can’t have fun langling manguage, I mean, why squish the Twinkies on the sidewalk? Right??

Of course it is!!

Lastly, but not in the least indivisible, is the (not very) famous poem that includes the bloop as a sound made from mergling.

Well there you go. These days, there are many things we could cry about, but sometimes it’s important to laugh with very big harroo while you have a big mouthful of macaroni and cheese. I hope you find a word for your day, whether it is “bird,” or “bloop,” or even something highly technical like “wozzpoffle.” In the meantime, may your nostrils be free of burrowing insects, and may your garments be forever stain resistant.

Peace, Love, and Blissful Antigens,

Hyram C. Gilmore

On the other hand, you have Betty Boop and Grampy…

Note:  This notice has been circulated to everyone who has pockets, pocket books, mailboxes, or ice in their driveway.  Please read carefully and follow the instructions.

My Fellow Colleagues,

In these uncertain economic times we must strive to defeat the competition both before and after they are finished watching their favorite movies and / or cooking programs. Therefore, it is with great implosion that I urge all of you to apply an exorbitant amount of effort toward our long discontinued standard of excellence.

In striving toward the spirit of this year’s successful yet spiritually degrading development plan, we are rolling out what we believe is an innovative approach to corporate indecency with our new motto: Strength Through Costly Mistakes, or STCM.

To facilitate Phase 1 of this plan, Zelden Bilgehammer of Quality Infusions, Inc. will be arriving soon to inspect the cambernackles. Please ensure that all edible Click Wrapper standards are well concealed and thoroughly hyphenated before Zelden’s infestation.  As a reminder, the entire Click Line will be down for maintenance during this inspection; since all the Snooglebockers are on their vacation to Jupiter to see the flying cows.  I hope they have a great time!!  I can smell the rancid cows from here!!  Let’s just hope they don’t bring back any rottage cheese.  That stuff is nasty, am I right??

But I digress…

During this exercise, please note that cambernackles will heretofore be inspected on the 3rd Tuesday of each week, twice monthly, with liberty and justice for all. This information may be shared freely with herds of wild businessmen, or any and all individuals whose names rhyme with “lumberjack,” as they would appear when divided by the pertinent day of the month.

For example: on the 1st Tuesday of 2022, the week begins with the letter R. It follows then, that you may share this with people who have names like:

Rudence Cumberjack

Rumby Cambersnorck

Royven Snanderjunk

And of course Roopy Wofflenick.

Note that the inverse modification standard never applies. None of these stick flingers are employed at this time, so sharing the inflammation can only enhance our deprivation protocol.

If you have any questions regarding this modulation, please insert two nickles and eleven dimes. I’d very much like you to tell me about the case you’re working on.  After all, your toaster is probably orange with chrome crumb fenders.  The chicken tenders have escaped the restaurant and are now stealing cars.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this urgent flea popping contest.

Sincerely,

Norvis Pimpleburger
Chief Inspection Officer
Feline Antler Fabrication Dept.

“If you want something done, don’t remove the cat’s antlers.” – Milton Wildpockets

——————————————————————–

On the other hand, we could just make with the jumpin’ jive and swing it!!

Hello Darling Friends and Zimplers,

Just a note to tell you that I’ve learned how to eat what snakes don’t like. Please, all of you, before it’s too late: change your weevils soon or your dentifrice will be subject to humiliation. You’ve always known what eggs are, so get with the program! OK, maybe you didn’t always know what eggplants are. But the second you found out, I’ll bet you enjoyed their rich, chewy centers.

Twelve times this year I’ve sanctioned your optic nerves. Now it’s time for YOU to do something for ME: bring “the stuff” to the next curbside travel aroma infestation. Do this for me in remembrance of the good old days, when men were mere clods of soil and women were tender, loving, delightful bags of chocolate crème oatmeal.

Clams have been telling me the best doggone stories I’ve ever ignored during the past few milliseconds. I often am astonished at their true talent and willingness to stack coloring books to the ceiling. If only they would cease applying the maraschino cherries to all those taffy-sucking, dust-gathering, elegant and kind bovine conversation artists. How pleasantly they yell to my cats while I’m sleeping: “HEY!!  GO USE YOUR CLAWS ON THE HUMANS! IT’S FUN WHEN THEY WAKE UP QUICKLY!!”

As I wake up each morning with cat ouch on my freckles, I’m beginning to understand why God made dump trucks.  It’s the noodle thing you know.  People fling noodles in the streets as a sign of protest during times of tardy laxative infusions.  When the doody is late, the people are… well… noodle flingers.  Some floodle ningers are just plain angry, and other fling noodlers are having the best time of their lives.  Why anyone would shake up a bottle of Pepsi and hand it to the “birthday boy” is beyond my wildest pile of tent caterpillars.  I’ve seen the look on “birthday boy’s” face as the brown foam covers his favorite television clicking carpet.  It’s just one of those moments when you just gotta have a pair of pineapples to stuff in the pencil sharpener.  So as you can see, the noodle trucks were made to pick up all the dump flingers.  Is that a remarkable paint remover or what??

PLEASE:  Step awaaay from the rhinestones.  We will glue them to your armpits later, after you’ve washed down those two bags of Camel Chow with radio juice.  Don’t worry about all the precipitation, Camel Chow is made to last even in the worst banana storms.  After all, Uncle Clogpipe will certainly let you know when it’s time to rotate the fossil camera.  Remember, always duck when the banana storm begins, or you’ll be the first one on your block to own a 12% rayon staple gun.  I’ve seen this happen at least – 0.5 times, maybe even less.  Don’t try to argue with me on this one, alright?

Wumba, wumba, wumba goes the tire with the small baseball bat inside for extra bad handling on those tight turns and special goat races.  Carefully pick your friends, for if you are picking your friends carefully, then you’ll never have to worry about picking your friend’s… um…. lint globs.  You thought I was gonna say nose, didn’t you?  Ha, ha ha…  it’s snot something I wood say hear.  I mean, you can pick your friends and you can pick your knows, but you can’t wipe your friend’s boogies off behind the sofa.  Sew there!  Eye didn’t say it!!  Ha ha on you!!!

All right then.  You better not read this anymore.  You may find yourself being lost within your shelf, and then there will be no finding of anything.  Who needs surround sound anyway??  I’ll tell you who:  ME.  I’m gonna tell someone to have it for me so I may enjoy it viscerally.  Or perhaps vivaciously.  Possibly even vertically.  My Belt is Yellow.

Horizontally Yours,

Krayben Fizztoggle

a.k.a. “Wally Wartwonder”

And now we must enjoy the delightful iridescent angle worm delight.

Dear Appletoes,

This letter is to remind you that both you and your dog owe me 16 gravy molecules from that bet we made last Hamperday. I’m not going to be lenient with you any longer; I am very soon going to splash Bloopen Sauce onto your Spoken Lint Collection. Do you really believe you can trust Stick Lizards to vonculate your patchnicorns? Well of course you can. That is why I love you and your pet sawhorse so doggoned much.

Oh my, can you remember when everyone in Pudding County could actually count to 14? That was the coolest time of my 3 week Toaster Party; especially when you shouted “who dumped out the electric chicken hammers??!!” during the Roof Rodeo Rocket Ranchers celebration. Very surprised young children performed the amazing “Backward Conga Dance” shortly after the marbles were ejected from that lawn ornament dispenser we installed on Picklestick Boulevard.

Oh my GOD!! This chair is farting!! Oh wait… I had receipts for dinner again. They always make my socks explode. No rudeness intended, but when I write nonsense while sitting in a fart chair there can be one or two candles that disagree with my liverwurst. But really now, would you please stop biting that poor spidersquirrel’s flyswatter every time the batteries on the remote control say “Karflebock?”

As I write this letter to you I’m becoming increasingly aware of just how unaware your awareness has become without you even being aware of it. For example, you know full well that I have always enjoyed the rich, full tone quality of a telephone roasting in the oven. In fact, just the other day, Difnert, Mopenarch, and Joojoofloat were over to the house the day after yesterday and we had a great time dissecting all the training wheels. So obviously both boys and girls can enjoy something without knowing something unnecessary; like who a person changes into when they have the wrong kind of cereal for their 3:45 snack (sometimes I turn into a tuba).

So my dear friend, my eyes are in great moisture from laughing my elbows off as I compose this heartfelt, yet indignant letter to you and all your Monkey Headed Friends Who Have Absolutely No Idea How To Shave A Viking’s Volume Control while the band plays simply delicious renditions of “I Never Had A Salad,” and oh my gosh, how about that wonderful smash hit “You Shouldn’t Choke That Speaker Cabinet So Loudly” while the Eagles and the Buzzards and the Loons all marvel at their complete Lack Of Interest in writing; either in a normal way or by abusing their English with a terribly too long run-on sentence.

Thank you for sniffing only the red printer cartridges. I’m sure you’ll be proud of yourself someday; and until then you can just keep trying to play disc golf with oversized chocolate chip railroad ties.

Peace, Love, and Haberdashery,

Hyram

P.S.:  If nonsense never existed, these guys would never have become famous.

An Open Letter to Noodletoss Anklebracelet

All Others May Read But Do Not Sing The Chorus Out Loud.

(It frightens the radish grabbers.)

Dear Noodlestomp,

The Flooper Beetles keep eating the insides of my safety shoes. I’ll need at least 3 brand new, totally used hammers to eradicate them softly while donuts fly south for Spring. If no tapeworm dust is inhaled, apply bologna to both armpits before walking to the bathroom. When you’ve finally come to the conclusion that ice cream cannot be injected into the elbows to increase flexibility, you’ll find it completely obvious that not only does hair find its way into every part of your automatic transmission, it also can insulate the tree beepers; and this of course is only useful when the wind is multicolored with a pleasantly indignant odor that is often found to be not unlike cottage cheese that has been allowed to rest on the top of a night light during Barn Knocking Day in eastern Slooponia.

Perhaps you never heard that I’m collecting $$ for anyone who wants to attend The Great Flatulence Festival. Beans and boiled eggs are served round the clock to all participants; who of course wear the traditional festival garb of off-white Party See Pants. When the Festival commences, all the Party See Pants participants part ways in a most disorderly manner and select their favorite “brooping corner” so they can perform their musical Stink-O-Rama. Their amusing Farty Party ways will delight the crowds into extinction; and the Party See Pants of the participants will have the familiar tan but irregularly elliptical patterns where the noxious fumes exit the stinkulus holysmokeabus apertures. Additional medical terminology is often used to grade the performances; and of course the winner is permitted to leave before someone strikes a match to ignite the celebratory Kaka-Kaboom.

Tickets are $.27 each but nose plugs are $379.17 per unused pair. Used plugs are not for sale but may often be bartered for with enticements of extra Boiled Egg Bean Surprise available at the condescension stand.

In closing I’d like to demand that you remember about all that creamy slinky dust oozing from the back of my phone today. Not sure why today should be any different than the time none of us celebrated Webmiggle Day while wearing oversized raincoats.

Thank you again for not shrieking while I opened that 12 year old can of smoked caterpillar toes. You must admit they were delicious with those deep fried dust crackers!

Eat Well And Cause Mischief,

Milbert R. Wofflenock

Speaking of nonsense, these gentlemen were masters…

Hello My Friends,

I’m writing to tell you that my fingers are broken and can no longer type anything that requires typing. You may well ask, “howma na heck are you broken fingers? Anyhow?” Then again, you may not ask that.

Please do NOT ask that.

The reason my fingers are broken is because they are not broken at all, merely sleeping in a typing trance that occurs each week during the Morshnayvian Lunar Cycle. Previously I was riding a Pepto Dismal Cycle, but that one only had 14 wheels so I switched back to the Bread Flavored Hamper Cycle. It coasts down hills really well, but the brakes are made of chalk dust; and that of course cannot be used in soups any longer.

Please refer to your Fronkle’s Universal Dictionary for a new and soil proof container for your unwanted dander. If you decide your dander is too oily for soil, gently injure the nearest lamp tossing machine and stand back while the multicolored fizzing foam engulfs your left elbow.

Thanks very much for being. I know you all are, and I’m truly grateful that this is. Hey, if you weren’t, you simply wouldn’t be; and then of course my thanks for your being would soon roll hastily toward the nearest asparagus burrito.

At this point, I must beseech unto you: If you do not enjoy this upcoming weekend, or any other day for that matter, I shall be forced to report you to the Inner Peace Police. If those guys apprehend your frownings, you’ll be mandated to toss marshmallows into the gopher hole. Soon after that, your presence will be requested at the North American Sandwich Throwing Contest, which is never held at midnight on top of Old Smokey.

Stand proudly during a meeting and give each of your office supplies a name; and tell them jokes often with a very big voice. This activity will very will very quickly let you know who you can trust.

Now I will go back to my finger realignment. Please call my veterinarian and find out if my lunch is still there.

Thank you,

Abner L. Pignibbler

a.k.a. “Mr. Kaboom”

And now for more varnish tray zipper waddles…