Misty morning dew clung like tightly fitted lingerie to the fluffy foliage of the Wayword Woods of the fantastical land of Caldonia.
To clarify, the Wayword Woods were known for being exceptionally humid, and while it was indeed morning dew that sensually wrapped itself over each leafy green tendril of every fern and tree and bush and decaying animal corpse, it was actually well into the evening. About half passed-gas, as they say.
So there it was, half passed-gas in the Wayword Woods, and there was hot and steamy morning dew that had been calmly copulating with everything containing chlorophyll and also anything decomposing since it cut the cheese.
‘It cut the cheese’ referred to when the sun rose every morning. It used to be called ‘the cutting of the cheese’ until all the hip kids replaced their parents at the CCC (caucus on common colloquialisms) and decided that ‘the cutting of the cheese’ was just a little too formal for something that sounded so stupid, and therefore not as enjoyable to say. Their parents and grandparents, in a state of what was known in Caldonia as disgrosst, argued instead that it sounded far stupider to formalize ‘the cutting of the cheese’ and that said added stupidity equaled added enjoyment to saying the saying. There were a silent few that argued in the dark that this was all bread and circuses to distract from the fact that ‘sunrise’ had far less syllables than ‘it cut the cheese,’ which itself had even less syllables than ‘the cutting of the cheese,’ but good, honest people didn’t talk about them.
So it was half-passed gas in the hennishly humid Wayword Woods and since it cut the cheese the day before morning dew had been fellating leafage all over the forest.
Tucked away in a far corner of the woods, away from all this fornication and flatulation, sat the creaky home of the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus. Nobody called Dr. Krumbunculus the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus except the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus himself, to himself, when he was alone with himself. Oftentimes instead he was referred to as ‘that weirdo’ or ‘that old guy, I think he might be a wizard’ or ‘that cousin twice removed who never calls his immediate or extended family’ or, most often of all when he visited the marketplace, ‘you there.’
The esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus’ home was four stories high, but if they were stories that you read instead of floors of a home then someone must have dunked them in a coffee pot ten times over. The foundation was decaying. The shingles looked like they had caught shingles, which was not impossible for inanimate objects in Caldonia but it was incredibly unlikely. It looked like if you breathed on the house the wrong way it would all come tumbling down. There was even a small side of the house that most could not see due to thicc powerful bushes that were presently covered in wet hot morning dew that indeed would send the house tumbling to pieces if breathed upon, as shown by the petite, poorly painted sign hanging over it reading ‘Don’t Breathe On Me Please The Entire House Will Collapse If You Do So. Seriously. Also, If You Do, I Am Not Liable For Any Damages. I Being This Sign, Of Course. I Am A Sentient Sign.’ It was but a common sign of the times.
What’s most important to understand about Dr. Krumbunculus’ home was not that it was festering with black mold, not that it smelled terrible to long nosed beasts that regularly coated their nostrils in feces and decay, and not that its basement was a well known hub for the kindly gigantic roaches of Wayword Wood (also know in science textbooks as Giganticus Roachius Ofius Theius Waywordius Woodsius). No, all of that information pales in comparison to the fact that the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus was trying to sleep, but his house (if it could be called a house as much as it could be called four shacks stacked on top of eachother held together by tacks, repurposed glue from the folds of cardboard pizza boxes, and misremembered dreams) was preventing him from doing so.
Technically it was not all the house’s fault. There happened to be what the locals, young and old, gentile and senile, all agreed on calling a ‘rager’ taking place a couple thirty nippled bunny hops (very large bunnies, possibly the largest possible, with hops spanning the length of two Adams fir trees) from the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus’ teetering tower, down at the Belligerent Bar-D.
The Belligerent Bar-D, Bar hyphen D. Seeing as it was a bar, but it had a bard for its mascot. It’s what the bar owners assumed to be some sort of a play on words.
That’s what they said, anywhatways.
Locals said that, not the bar owners.
Maybe the bar owners said that too, but nobody could ever remember who said what on account of the numerous ragers which were held almost every night at The Belligerent Bar-D.
Outside the Belligerent Bar-D were a myriad of horses, chewing on whatever the fresh hen horses chew on. They had long flowing manes and were startlingly large, especially compared to the donkey tied beside them.
Inside the Belligerent Bar-D were numerous drunkards, tankards and there was even a bar (no hyphen d). From floor to ceiling behind the bar (no hyphen d) were kegs. The Belligerent Bar-D did not keep wine in stock. Nor did it house many spirits. No, it didn’t play up the old ‘haunted by ghosts’ gimmick—that niche was filled by the Terrifying Tavern a few more thirty nippled bunny hops away from the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus’ four story lump of wood scraps and shame.
One of the various plastered denziens of the Belligerent Bar-D that half passed-gas was Sir Broderick the Shitfaced, whose moniker was, surprisingly enough, not inspired by his constant drunkenness. It was his old nickname from halfway magical boring school (not to be confused with a boarding school, which even in Caldonia were reserved for children whose families had lots of money).
In the very halfway magical boring school, the varsity wrestling team would grab Sir Broderick like a broom and shove his head deep inside the student outhouses, using his body like a butter churn. This was only, of course, before the schoolhouse wizards had the chance to cast a feces banishing spell, which they customarily did around five minutes after the hour, every hour. Magic had since this sorry time advanced to the point where toilet wizards instead only had to cast the spell once a week. There were rumors that eventually they would be able to develop a spell that would only need to be reapplied once every year, and after that, maybe a spell that only needed to be cast once ever. An eternal dung elimination spell. Sir Broderick the Shitfaced was skeptical about these rumors considering the fact that it was unknown to society as a whole where the all excreta ended up after having a spell cast upon it.
Sir Broderick the Shitfaced was generally gangly save for the ill shapen lower paunch he had slowly cultivated from his daily ale habit. He had a thicc jet black moustache and accompanying pitiful chin strap, both of which were presently and generally soaked in ale, grease and crumbs. He wore offbrand ‘chainmail’ that was most likely plastic with a half-assed enchantment cast over it that wrapped around his head with a cut out for his face. He would have appeared rather egg headed if it weren’t for the large saucepan fastened atop his head with a belt. The ‘chainmail’ also covered Sir Broderick the Shitfaced’s arms and legs. He wore gloves and boots that had been sold to him as kevlar but were in reality a threaded mishmash of wholesale ferret, racoon and thirty nippled bunny hide. His robes resembled a bleached white burlap sack with an uneven ampersand painted limply in lime green over it, because that’s exactly what they were.
“Shitface! Get over here you blathering baboon!”
Sir Broderick swiveled around Shitfacedly to see one of the old wresters who had helped pen his nickname. The man loomed over him, looking a couple medicine balls short of a ton. He was holding a pitcher of ale bigger than Sir Broderick’s face.
“Oi there Thurmy. Chips and fish and,” Sir Boderick let forth a bile filled burp, “and all that funk.”
“You really are rightly sozzled Shitface my old chup! What swings you around these nether regions this half passed-gas? A little bit of old fun?” Thurmsabold stepped forward and grabbed for Sir Broderick’s arm.
“I don’t swing that way,” Sir Broderick hacked with fartburn. “And I am not planning on cavorting with spinsters. What what and all.”
Misty morning dew clung like tightly fitted lingerie to the fluffy foliage of the Wayword Woods of the fantastical land of Caldonia.
To clarify, the Wayword Woods were known for being exceptionally humid, and while it was indeed morning dew that sensually wrapped itself over each leafy green tendril of every fern and tree and bush and decaying animal corpse, it was actually well into the evening. About half passed-gas, as they say.
So there it was, half passed-gas in the Wayword Woods, and there was hot and steamy morning dew that had been calmly copulating with everything containing chlorophyll and also anything decomposing since it cut the cheese.
‘It cut the cheese’ referred to when the sun rose every morning. It used to be called ‘the cutting of the cheese’ until all the hip kids replaced their parents at the CCC (caucus on common colloquialisms) and decided that ‘the cutting of the cheese’ was just a little too formal for something that sounded so stupid, and therefore not as enjoyable to say. Their parents and grandparents, in a state of what was known in Caldonia as disgrosst, argued instead that it sounded far stupider to formalize ‘the cutting of the cheese’ and that said added stupidity equaled added enjoyment to saying the saying. There were a silent few that argued in the dark that this was all bread and circuses to distract from the fact that ‘sunrise’ had far less syllables than ‘it cut the cheese,’ which itself had even less syllables than ‘the cutting of the cheese,’ but good, honest people didn’t talk about them.
So it was half-passed gas in the hennishly humid Wayword Woods and since it cut the cheese the day before morning dew had been fellating leafage all over the forest.
Tucked away in a far corner of the woods, away from all this fornication and flatulation, sat the creaky home of the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus. Nobody called Dr. Krumbunculus the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus except the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus himself, to himself, when he was alone with himself. Oftentimes instead he was referred to as ‘that weirdo’ or ‘that old guy, I think he might be a wizard’ or ‘that cousin twice removed who never calls his immediate or extended family’ or, most often of all when he visited the marketplace, ‘you there.’
The esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus’ home was four stories high, but if they were stories that you read instead of floors of a home then someone must have dunked them in a coffee pot ten times over. The foundation was decaying. The shingles looked like they had caught shingles, which was not impossible for inanimate objects in Caldonia but it was incredibly unlikely. It looked like if you breathed on the house the wrong way it would all come tumbling down. There was even a small side of the house that most could not see due to thicc powerful bushes that were presently covered in wet hot morning dew that indeed would send the house tumbling to pieces if breathed upon, as shown by the petite, poorly painted sign hanging over it reading ‘Don’t Breathe On Me Please The Entire House Will Collapse If You Do So. Seriously. Also, If You Do, I Am Not Liable For Any Damages. I Being This Sign, Of Course. I Am A Sentient Sign.’ It was but a common sign of the times.
What’s most important to understand about Dr. Krumbunculus’ home was not that it was festering with black mold, not that it smelled terrible to long nosed beasts that regularly coated their nostrils in feces and decay, and not that its basement was a well known hub for the kindly gigantic roaches of Wayword Wood (also know in science textbooks as Giganticus Roachius Ofius Theius Waywordius Woodsius). No, all of that information pales in comparison to the fact that the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus was trying to sleep, but his house (if it could be called a house as much as it could be called four shacks stacked on top of eachother held together by tacks, repurposed glue from the folds of cardboard pizza boxes, and misremembered dreams) was preventing him from doing so.
Technically it was not all the house’s fault. There happened to be what the locals, young and old, gentile and senile, all agreed on calling a ‘rager’ taking place a couple thirty nippled bunny hops (very large bunnies, possibly the largest possible, with hops spanning the length of two Adams fir trees) from the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus’ teetering tower, down at the Belligerent Bar-D.
The Belligerent Bar-D, Bar hyphen D. Seeing as it was a bar, but it had a bard for its mascot. It’s what the bar owners assumed to be some sort of a play on words.
That’s what they said, anywhatways.
Locals said that, not the bar owners.
Maybe the bar owners said that too, but nobody could ever remember who said what on account of the numerous ragers which were held almost every night at The Belligerent Bar-D.
Outside the Belligerent Bar-D were a myriad of horses, chewing on whatever the fresh hen horses chew on. They had long flowing manes and were startlingly large, especially compared to the donkey tied beside them.
Inside the Belligerent Bar-D were numerous drunkards, tankards and there was even a bar (no hyphen d). From floor to ceiling behind the bar (no hyphen d) were kegs. The Belligerent Bar-D did not keep wine in stock. Nor did it house many spirits. No, it didn’t play up the old ‘haunted by ghosts’ gimmick—that niche was filled by the Terrifying Tavern a few more thirty nippled bunny hops away from the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus’ four story lump of wood scraps and shame.
One of the various plastered denziens of the Belligerent Bar-D that half passed-gas was Sir Broderick the Shitfaced, whose moniker was, surprisingly enough, not inspired by his constant drunkenness. It was his old nickname from halfway magical boring school (not to be confused with a boarding school, which even in Caldonia were reserved for children whose families had lots of money).
In the very halfway magical boring school, the varsity wrestling team would grab Sir Broderick like a broom and shove his head deep inside the student outhouses, using his body like a butter churn. This was only, of course, before the schoolhouse wizards had the chance to cast a feces banishing spell, which they customarily did around five minutes after the hour, every hour. Magic had since this sorry time advanced to the point where toilet wizards instead only had to cast the spell once a week. There were rumors that eventually they would be able to develop a spell that would only need to be reapplied once every year, and after that, maybe a spell that only needed to be cast once ever. An eternal dung elimination spell. Sir Broderick the Shitfaced was skeptical about these rumors considering the fact that it was unknown to society as a whole where the all excreta ended up after having a spell cast upon it.
Sir Broderick the Shitfaced was generally gangly save for the ill shapen lower paunch he had slowly cultivated from his daily ale habit. He had a thicc jet black moustache and accompanying pitiful chin strap, both of which were presently and generally soaked in ale, grease and crumbs. He wore offbrand ‘chainmail’ that was most likely plastic with a half-assed enchantment cast over it that wrapped around his head with a cut out for his face. He would have appeared rather egg headed if it weren’t for the large saucepan fastened atop his head with a belt. The ‘chainmail’ also covered Sir Broderick the Shitfaced’s arms and legs. He wore gloves and boots that had been sold to him as kevlar but were in reality a threaded mishmash of wholesale ferret, racoon and thirty nippled bunny hide. His robes resembled a bleached white burlap sack with an uneven ampersand painted limply in lime green over it, because that’s exactly what they were.
“Shitface! Get over here you blathering baboon!”
Sir Broderick swiveled around Shitfacedly to see one of the old wresters who had helped pen his nickname. The man loomed over him, looking a couple medicine balls short of a ton. He was holding a pitcher of ale bigger than Sir Broderick’s face.
“Oi there Thurmy. Chips and fish and,” Sir Boderick let forth a bile filled burp, “and all that funk.”
“You really are rightly sozzled Shitface my old chup! What swings you around these nether regions this half passed-gas? A little bit of old fun?” Thurmsabold stepped forward and grabbed for Sir Broderick’s arm.
“I don’t swing that way,” Sir Broderick hacked with fartburn. “And I am not planning on cavorting with spinsters. What what and all.”
