Colfax McLiverneck

And now a reading from Second Heynongians 7,18: “And behold, the Angel of Perishment did descend upon the Holy Earwolf Table, and a host of callbacks did follow with him, and there was a rending of copy and a gnashing of apples throughout the land.”

Next on One Thing Considered, we talk to another small business person.

You’ve got mail, but you might look into a quality set of plate armor, because that owlbear is coming in hot with a +12 melee attack bonus

Bifurcate. Convex. Impinge. Corn. Tremolo. Heuristic. Fungible.

On today’s show, the author of “My Malodorous Mammoth”, Josephus Cornbaum the Writing Hobo and his smelly, furry—and tellingly immobile—elephant, Elvin.

Villany. Fuselage. Xylophone. Corn. Ameliorate. Juddering. Imprimatur.

You, me, a tureen of pureed corn, and a shaved sloth named Wilhelmena. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

Heynong her? I barely know her, man.

Nugatory. Poblano. Trenchant. Corn. Vernacular. Cudgel. Simulacrum.

Non sequitur? I barely cornbread.

More like bed, bath, and your mom.

Occlusion. Bifurcate. Specious. Corn. Winsome. Masticate. Impelled.

Tragedy plus time equals comedy plus bang plus bang.

More like Between Two Ficuses. Or is it Fici?

An itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout, out my shower head, and bit me on the face, causing a disfiguring necrosis which led to my nickname, “Vernon the Squash-Headed Freakshow Boy”.

Hop in my Chrysler, it’s as big as a whale, and it may smell bad, kid, but it’ll keep you warm until I get the shelter up.

James fractured maize, and I cared not.

Hop in my Chrysler, it’s as big as a whale. Specifically, a Pygmy Right Whale, so actually just hop back on out—there’s only room for me. Byeee

Grumpy the Oldman, had a gouty big left toe, with a corn cob pipe and a hairy nose and a nasty habit of pooping in his neighbors’ yards.

I opened the door, there was poop on the floor—somebody didn’t walk the dinosaur!

Chapter the Twenty-Fourth: In Which Sir Robert of Lickingcorn is Pursued by the Constable After Absconding from the Village Haberdashery with a Purloined Full-Beaver Bowler

I got a problem locating my cattle in the dark, and the only prescription is more cowbells.

When life gives you bubblegum, kick some ass.

Your mom sells dumbshells by the stupidshore.

Franky, my man, I don’t nong a hey.