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Rated: E · Fiction · Nonsense · #2268513
Nonsense entry for The Whatever Contest. My own nonsense with a nod to Stephen Colbert.

Of course old George killed his fiancée up on "Dismal Creek. He undoubtedly spent too much time up there and lost it, everybody said.

I’m not so sure after I went up into them woods to see if I could see the ghost girl. I didn’t see the girl, but them other boogers is worse. Them boogers is picking they noses and them boogers they picked is worse than the first ones. The wurst sausage of them all grabbed me by the elbone and tweezled my toezles unmercifully till I went plumb into my alamagordamus and out the other sidecar. I fell in amongst the alladiles and crocogators chomping each other’s hide and seeking a better ways and means committee. They slapped my soles till they swam away. I was soleless.

I clawed my way up the burl walnut grain whiskey jug band that was jamming and jellying in the infinite dumpster outside the Whiskey A Go away little birdbath. The gato dragged me into the lowly lowlifes living under my toezlenail. I couldn’t stand such psychedelicky carry-on baggage not one more millennium. I couldn’t see the trees for the Forest Gulping my mortal remaining to be see-sawing the oaken lumberjackercracking my knucklebones are connected to my kneezlebones connected back to my elbone that the wurst sausage was still jerking me around by the wayside of the dismal dark chocolate chip cooking with gas that costs $4.89 a gallon.

Yep. If old George wasn’t a nut brown ale when he went up there, he was riding the midnight espresso to Eastern State Mental Hospital by the time he left handed me the shredded remains of my alamagordamus back. After going through all that, he probably wasn't able to kill her. If I was to place a wager, I'd put my dinero on that ornery wurst of all boogery sausages.

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