Good Man Whizzle
Do you presage, portent, or prophesy? I need to know for I want to marry a gal from Hoboken, but my friend tells me she’s a doxy. Should I marry, good man whizzle?
Ah, my good son, what foresight. What a solid foundation you have. How stout. To seek me out. To seek out the wisdom of an old harbinger like myself. Well let me tell you what I can do for you. I can dance a jig on the corpse of callosum. I can sing a plenary session speech in Esperanto. I can even maypole the dilettante fellows of carbuncular. All that and more. But I can’t tell you a thing about your lassie, as I caught the French pox from her and it’s really attenuating my signals from the future; and it made my pizzle fall off in a sizzle in the noon day sun, son.
Oh, thank you wise man. I’ve been looking for a case of the claptrap! And how better than to trap myself in a union with this syphilitic trollop. Thanks, good man.
Oh, no, wait, good son. It’s gonorrhea, not syphilis. Maybe even a dose of one of the hepatitises… I can’t remember which…
“What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he is staring out of the window.”
— Burton Rascoe