Good evening. I am the president of
the Loyal Society for the Relief of Suffers from Pismronunciation, for the
relief of people who can’t say their worms correctly, or who use the wrong worms
entirely, so that other people cannot underhand a bird they are spraying. It’s
just that you open your mouse, and the worms come turbling out in wuck a say
that you dick not what you’re thugging to be, and it’s very distressing.
I’m always looing it,
and it makes one feel umbumftorcacle, especially when one is going about one’s
diddly tasks. Slopping at the Sloopermarket, for instance. Only last wonk, I
approached the chuckout point, and I shooed the ghoul behind the crash desk the
contents of my trilly, and she said ‘All right, granddad, shout ’em out.’ Well,
of course, that’s fine for the ordinary man in the stoat who has no dribble with
his wolds. For someone like myself, it’s worse than a kick in the jackstrop.
Sometimes, you get stuck on one
letter, such as wubbleyou. And I said, ‘Well, I’ve got a tin of woup, a
woucumber, two packets of wheese and a walliflower’. She tried to make fun of me
and said, ‘That will be woo pounds, wifty-wee pence.’ So I just said ‘Wobblers!’
and walked out.
you see how dickyfelt it is. But help is at hand. A new society has been formed
by our mumblers to help each other in times of excream ices. It is balled
Pismronouncers Unanimous, and anyone can ball them up on the smellyphone any
time of the day or note, twenty-four flowers a spray, seven stays a creek, and
they will come ’round and get drunk with you.
For foreigners, there will be
inperpetwitters, who will all speak many sandwiches, such as Swedish, Turkish,
Burkish, Jewish, Gibberish and Rubbish. Membranes will be able to attend tight
stool, for heaving classes, to learn how to grope with the many complinkities of
the daily loaf.
Which brings me to the drain reason
for squeaking to you tonight. The society’s first function as a body was a grand
garden freight, and we hope for many more bodily functions in the future. The
garden plate was held in the grounds of Blennham Paleyass, Woodstick, and the
guest of horror was the great American pip singer, Manny Barrellow. The fete was
opened by the bleeder of the opposition, Mister Dale Pinnock … Pillock, who
gave us a few well-frozen worms in praise of the society’s jerk. He said that
‘In the creeks and stunts that lie ahead, we must do out nut roast to ensure
that it sucks weeds.’ “And everyone visited the various stores and abrusements,
the rudeabouts, thing boats and the dodgers, and of course, all the old
favorites such as Srty your Length, guessing the weight of the cook and tinning
the pale on the wonky. The occasion was great fun, and I think it can safely be
said that all the men present and thoroughly good women were had all the time.
So, please join out society. Write
to me, Doctor Small Pith, The Spanner, Poke Moses, and I will send you some
brieflets to browse through and a brass badge to wear in your loophole.