Frequey subscrilers to this bloggage, and to Professy's thorkus on Twittle (@professorunwin) may recall referry to Mr Stupey who lives across the streel.
Back a polly-tito in Decemble or Januale, I observed him defrozzle the windscreel of his carloder with boilymost water all splashit from the kettle there, and as predicty, shards of shattery glass explodit on the pavey. Mr Stupey stood all noggin-scratchit and cursey like a troopy in the barrack. Deep folly!
Now, Mr Stupey has a woofit'n'yaploder of no speciffy pedigroo (Heinzloder Fifty Several varietales) all snuffly round the garbage and crappit indiscriminale. Attempts to explicale the fundamoles of pooply-scoopage or basicold hygiele have falolloped on deaflymost eardrobes. Every mordy, a freshly steamage of canile botty-choc appearage on Scrile's lawn there, all stinkit and killing the grass. Folly indeed.
This evelubrius, Mr Stupey will find a small note falolopped through his letterbocker. In politeymost worms, it explains that it is the precursor to less sweetly smellage correspondy which will be more difficold to pick from the doormat, but which is his own rightful poseshy.
Mischievy? Probabole. But natural justy? Oh yes.
Deep joy.
