The Whatever Files

Beerly De-Loved

Beery de-loved,

We are gartered here to parsnip in the pretence of the bored. Now lettuce bow our hair in ribbons, as we spray together:

Bar tender
bring me eleven
barrels, each of them the same.

Barmen.

In my Herman today I wish to undress the subject of spinning, and indeed, more horrifically, look at the Seven Smedley Pins. Every one of us is a winner baby, that's so true. Chin is with us from the moment we are born, until the hey that we dye. (That'll be the hay).

Some might bray, "How is that fair? That I should be a tinner when must a tinny baby?"

The Anns swear, (collectively and together), has Toby, Original Gin.

The bins of the further are passed onto the buns and naughties. Veneration to defenestration.

Burst amongst the dins is that of hiss loaf, or Procul Harum.

Boo not putt off to day, what you can butt off till Tom Hollow.

Tape mime to smell sum one how much you yes, steam them.

Enter the Whatever Contest. Not all will be made clear, but you may go away with a mud steeling about rings in general and your elf in vernicular.


Note: I think this entry went down like a lead balloon. It was intended to be a nod to the marvellous William Archibald Spooner.

Wikipedia has this to say about him: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Archibald_Spooner