Bruce the blathering bruxomaniac
bought his fiance Brenda a bathetic brummagem
as a balm for her barratrous betweenity.
Her keen eye spotted the fashious fabrile flaws
which triggered in Bruce an attack
of battological blepharospasms.
He promised a bonification of the jookerish jewel
with much jactitation, after Brenda branded him
a borborygmous backberend and threatened
to throw him into the buldering barathrum.
Bruce then broadly barnumized the rectification
of his jargogling jentacular jookerie,
his batrachoid, brimborian mouth
wafting bonnyclabber-smelling bromopnea.

Elsewhere, after a familial phone call,
Brenda's cousin Cleo,
a clodpolish purveyor of clish-ma-claver,
related the incident to her friend Clarissa,
who clappermaclawed the clinchpoop Bruce in absentia.
Clarissa referred to Bruce's fumfering fanfaronade
as flatulopoetic.

"What does that word mean?" asked Cleo.

"It's an adjective defined as 'sounding like
a rhythmic stream of flatulence,'" replied clarissa.

"Why, that's a cockeyed cacophenism!" exclaimed Cleo.
"Surely your critique is cacodexical."

"On the contrary," replied Clarissa,
"Bruce's frustraneous foozle
proves him to be a corybantic cockolorum,
and his union with your cousin
will most likely turn out a catawamptious cagamosis."

"I'm tired of using 'C' words," said Cleo.
"Do you even know what you're saying?
It's all a bunch of desipient deblateration!"

"Let's switch to 'D' words then,"
said Don Dominic D'Arcy D'Arbanville Davidovich.

"Fuck off, you dumb dildo!"
cried Cleo and Clarissa in complete unison.

Meanwhile, Bruce, feeling like a fashious, feckless fefnicate,
vowed to purchase for Brenda a gemstone
worthy of a fyrd fugleman's fourragere.

"You'd better," fleered Brenda,
"or there will be no more fellatio for you!
And furthermore, I don't want to hear any more of your
fissilingual fimblefamble or your flagitous flam.
Your status with me is filipendulous at best.
Now get your finewed, fartleberried ass out of here!
I'm forfoughten!"
And she continued to eat her Christmas flumadiddle
while picking at her flocculent hair.

"What a frampoid fricitrace she is today!" thought Bruce.

Shortly thereafter, Bruce's friend Gary Garcia MacGillavry
hung up his phone with a giddhomic gesture.

"Meow. Who was that?" asked his wife Gretchen
the galericulate galeanthropist.

"It was Bruce," replied Gary.
"He requires a glyptical giardinetto
to appease his gamophobic fiance."

"Meow. He's such a glaikit, gobomouche geck!" said Gretchen,
"I'm surprised Brenda hasn't gemeled with a ginchy gemicon by now.
Do these galligaskins match my hat? Meow."

"He's a gibbed, glabrous gobbet of gleet alright," said Gary.
"I'm surprised he hasn't become a gaberlunzie by now, or a gugusse,
what with all his galimatias and gleek and glinking at the ladies.
He's a well known gynotikolobomassophile, you know."

Just then, Bruce appeared at the door
of Gary and Gretchen's navicular double-wide.

"Gary, you napiform, nasicornous natterjack! How are You?"
bellowed Bruce, slapping Gary on the back.
"Still the same old niddle-noddle, I see."

"You jimber-jawed jackaroo! Your junkettaceous jactancy
will jargogle my wife!" growled Gary.

"Meow. We're already on the 'N's!" said Gretchen.

"Why is she saying meow?" asked Bruce.

"She's a galeanthropist" replied Gary.
"She believes herself to be a cat."

"How nefandous!" said Bruce. "A real nooscopic nodus."

"Yes," said Gary, "the end result of
a nocent case of noscomephrenia."

"Well, I hate to go all niminy-piminy on you," said Bruce,
"but I just had a nibby-jibby with Brenda
and I must appease her or our engagement is napoo."

"Not to worry," said Gary, "I've arranged for us
to meet my black market connection Nestor Needleman
at the Niggling Pig Pub.
We can have a nipperty-tipperty nipperkin or two
and get nimtopsical.
Nestor will nick you a bodacious bagged bauble
for your bargain-basement budget.
I must warn you, however, of Nestor's peculiarities;
he suffers from nanism and his head is napriform and nacrous.
What's more, his vices tend towards the nepheligenous
and neanilagmiac, and he is a frightful nebulophobiac,
which can make walking about at night quite difficult."

Later that evening, at the Niggling Pig Pub,
Bruce and Gary kept their rendezvous
with a dilatory Nestor Needleman.

"Please forgive my tardiness," wheezed nestor,
"I was engaged in a bout of palinoiac pagaphobia.
I'm terribly panthophobic...
Let's all paggle for a bit, eh?
See if you can't get the attention of that
pachycephalic, papuliferous, pervicacious waitress.
You might try a bit of palpebration with her."

"Oi! See here, you proctalgiac punguetto!
Bring us a round of lagers and be quick about it!"
bellowed Bruce in the direction of the boopic barmaid.

"So your fiance requires a pendicle, eh? Or a periapt perhaps?
My my," Nestor chuckled, "what a parvanimitous, parvenu pinchpin
she's turned out to be, eh?
She's served you a right periclitatious peotomy,
and from a perissotomist at that.
She's got your peter in the old piliwinks, my good man."

"See here now!" said Bruce peevishly,
"that is the love of my life you're prattling on about.
Your words are punctate, pythogenic and proditorious,
and what's more, I find you to be pleniloquent and pleonastic.
Are you the child of a palliard?
I demand a pallinode to reverse the damage done
to my precarious emotional state
by your pantagruelian, paradiastolic pasquinade."

"Please forgive my parapraxis," said Nestor,
"it was pure, pornerastic parvanimity on my part.
I have a tendency towards pleonastic pleniloquence."

"Yes, and podobromhidrosis as well. Pee-yew!" chimed in Gary.

"These 'P' words are making me popoloco!" growled Bruce.
"We're like a bunch of pozzy-wallahs at a pootly-nautch!"

"Quick--before we quackle in the quaa!
Someone pour the quadrimum and let's get down to business," said Gary.

"I can procure for you a purloined, pistic, polychrestic pearl
for a paltry ninety-nine pence," said Nestor,
for I'm a peculating, perdeullious picaroon, I am."

"And a proctalgiac princox," muttered Gary.

"No more 'P's!" shrieked Bruce.
"Desist with your infernal quonking, you quaggling quakebuttocks!"

At the very same moment, on the other side of town,
Brenda was repining and repullulating
with her friend Rhonda Regina Ratzenberger
at the Runny Nose Bar & Grill,
over two cups of rubiginous, ructation-producing rambooze.

"I'm simply ramfeezled," said Brenda.
Bruce is a rodomontade rantipole, and a rantallion as well,
which is freakish, and a renifleur, which is downright perverse."

"Golly!" exclaimed Rhonda.
"His story was certainly a rumgumptious roorback.
And just when you'd returned to renitent resipiscence,
after your year of living as a remontado."

"Yes, I was feeling refocillated,
and now Bruce's rectopathic recrudescence
is making me feel all rafty and remugient,
and not at all in the mood for retrocopulation," said Brenda.
"I've returned to my rhyparographic poems
and my rhytiscopia is out of control.
I've already broken four mirrors."

"Pardon me for intruding,
but for the sake of linguistic and culinary variety,
I suggest you order the sacchariferous salmagundi;
it's salubrious and salvific," interjected a strange, saccadic man
who had just entered the blabagogical bistro.

"Who are you?" asked Brenda.

"I am Don Dominic D'Arcy D'Arbanville Davidovich.
We met in the second paragraph," the man replied.

"Oh yes, I remember you," said Brenda.
"You're that scaturient scaramouche;
a real saprostomous sardoodledum."

"Ah, that may be so," replied Don Dominic,
"but I am also a scialitic scatomancer,
and by an effodient examination of the flammulated feces
you left in the fimetarious firkin, I can tell you
what activities your bonny Bruce is engaged in right now.
Also, please notice my usage of a wide variety
of alliterative consonants."

"Your fulgent, flexanimous facundity is a mere fritinancy,
a floccinaucinihilipilification," hissed Brenda.
"Fuck all that shit and tell me what Bruce is up to!"

"By the graces of Sterculius, the god of feces,
the afore-mentioned sesquipedalian scybalum revealed to me
that your bushwah, bungfu Bruce is, at this very moment,
carrying out a scrofulous scheme,
worthy of a spurcidical skybald,
in which he plans to procure a stolen, smaragdine sparkler
for a very small sum, in order to convince you
of his androcracic, axiopistic affluence," said Don Dominic.

"I see," said Brenda. "Very well then, you may join us.
Have a seat while I ponder the best way to deal with
Bruce's sterquilinian shenanigans.
And please allow me to saginate you with some schnitz,
some spissated sippet, and some skookum sillabub;
it's a bit scrannel and screevy,
but nonetheless known for it's sapidity.
This is no slipslop, so don't be a slobber-chops.
Also, please help yourself to a glass
of this sorbile supernaculum."

"Thank you. I accept your generous offer," said Don Dominic.

"You know," said Brenda, "before Bruce, I was engaged
to a sneekdraw snollygoster named Sal,
whose entry into the political arena was a total snurge.
His speeches were always shite due to his
stertorous, stentorophonous snoaching.
We were introduced by a scurfy, shardborn schatchen,
and there were many who said I captured Sal's devotion
with sortilege, and called me a spoffokins,
but in reality it was suppalpation, suaviation,
and stridulous subagitation, along with my
sardanapalian sarmassation that won his heart.
Poor Sal... He was smabbled in a snickersee at a rally
when a sanguisugous nay-sayer squabashed Sal
with a stoopgallant, spurcidical, spatrifying snash
over what he perceived to be Sal's suaviloquent sumpsimus.
He also spatrified Sal's reputation
by accusing him of spousebreach and bedswerving
and the frequenting of spearhouses.
Good old Sal... he was quite snod
and had a lot of spizzerinctum.
Bruce, on the other hand,
is a squabbish, steatopygiac, squamaceous snarleyyow,
and I'm obliged to play the soubrette with him.
He thinks me to be a sarmassaphobe,
but the truth is that he's a slooming slowcome in bed.
I'd like to give him a sharp, skelpish sisera,
or strangle him with a shaga-nappy.
He should just commit skoptsy,
and give himself over to spadonism
for all the good his schlong does him.
I don't know what I ever saw in that scatophagous,
sciapodous, slubbering squidgereen!
And this scheme of his is surely a sooterkin
of the highest order!"

"Tsk tsk, we're going to need to take ourselves a stegmonth
after the birthing of all those hissing 'S' snakes,"
chided Don Dominic.

"Oh shut up, you sybaritic swillbowl!" spat Brenda.

Meanwhile, at the Niggling Pig,
Bruce, after pocketing his ersatz emerald
and bidding farewell to Gary and Nestor,
was having one last dipsetic drink for the road.

"I'm confident Brenda will enjoy her new tempean teetotum,"
Bruce thobbed. "I hope she doesn't thrimble it too much."

Bruce's stomach growled.

"I could do with a tiffin--perhaps some tumtum,"
Bruce thought to himself.

But before he had time to place an order to go,
Brenda burst into the room all tonitruous and tuzzimuzzy.

"Tits!" Bruce muttered in a most tootlish mannner.
"Brenda's transfeminating. She's going to thirl my ears
with a real tonguepadding."

"You... you... you tardigrade tath!" sputtered Brenda.
"I'm going to turdify your testicles
and drop them into a tumbrell!"

"Jupiter's thunder! She's turned into
an ugglesome, ululating, unguiculate urubu!" thought Bruce.
"I'm getting the fuck out of here
before I'm forced to commmit premature uxoricide!"

"Brenda, you're vecordius," said Bruce,
"and I will not engage in this viraginous velitation with you!
I'm leaving!"

"Such vaniloquence," snapped Brenda.
"Are you afraid of a little vastation?
Are you not a viripotent man?
I suppose not... I can see from your
vespertilian verbigeration that you're simply not ready
for a true, viparious vennootschap, are you?
Well, you can take your wally-gowdy and ram it up your ass,
you wantwit, you wampus, you waghalter!"

"Oh yeah?" sneered Bruce.
"Well, I've had a wamefu of your whining and whinging,
you wapperjawed windsucker!
All this wowf wanhope over a wee whigamaleery?
What a waste! And you'd chop my whirligigs off over it?
I've a good mind to pop you a whisterpoop,
you worricowish whangdoodle!
And you can give me back my wooer-bab as well."

"For your information, I may be xassafrassed," blurted Brenda.

"That seems highly unlikely," retorted Bruce,
"considering that I suffer from xeronisus."

"I'm so sick of your yarmouth, yeply yedding,"
Brenda sighed heavily.
"I don't care anymore--I'm done."

"We're at the end of the bloody alphabet,"
squalled Brenda as she walked out the door,
"so go fuck a monkey! Go fuck a whole zenana of monkeys,
you zooerastic zorillo!"

And so ends the saga of Bruce and Brenda, the popular steadies;
two American kids growin' up in the heartland.
These days, Brenda is a heliolater studying hebesphalmology at UCLA.
Bruce is currently a hagiolatrous heguman
specializing in hamartiology,
and struggling with a habromaniacal hadeharia
as he tries to reinstate a heautontimorumenostic hagiarchy.

David Aronson
November 2009