"No.
Really?...
Dang. Good thing I don't read detective stories, then.
I'd do this, just 'cause it'd be fun, but we've been doing so much about metaphors and stuff in poetry class that I'm tapped out by now. Mhm.
Oh yeah, and it's past 10:30, but whoever cared about trivial things like going to bed on time?
Really."
...Wrote Penguin, pounding every syllable into her keyboard like a child pounds plastic moles with their mallet in a Whack-a-Mole game, knowing that they are just
this close to getting a high score and winning the sweet treasure upon the prize-shelf, sparkling like a Smeyer vampire frolicking in the sunlight with a shimmering beaut' of a MarySue in tow. Verily, she wrote as though she were chipping the letters into stone, just as Moist had commented about William de Worde at the top of page 143 of
Making Money (the American edition, anyway), because truthfully she still suffers from the sad affliction of stealing good words and phrases from other authors, that strange chronic illness that has blighted her writings since the
dawn of time early in her unillustrious career - although she must be thankful, as she is nowhere near as stricken with this disease as Christopher Paolini - and knows that she must stop soonest, afore her work is published (after, of course, actually being written - as unlikely to happen as the sudden cryogenically solidified state of affairs in that deep-below kingdom of Pluto) and her painful theft of words and use of cliches is made public. And - egads! what is this? She seems to be infected with the plight of clauses of undue length, i.e., "run-on sentences," with an added symptom prompting her to portray prose like a vampirely sparkling amethyst, a painted in a vivid blend of red and blue. O, woe! All that is left to hope for is that the effects wear off presently, lest the brains of the wretched and pitiful readers of this journal begin to act as a marshmallow microwavéd, and duly burst into a startling array of smithereens, which would be rather unfortunate and also quite irritant to the nerve endings.
"Oh, shut up," Penguin
caused, with little mental effort on her part, these soundwaves to form the pattern of syllables such as to form words of the English language with particular meaning and inflection; to exist merely by the fluctuation of a combination of nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide, water vapor, and a variety of other molecules forming the atmosphere to pass over her vocal chords and create the illusion of sound. Illusion? Indeed! For if a tree falls in a forest - or perhaps a penguin rants at her computer screen - and no one is around to hear it, would it, in fact, make a sound? said.
It was the best of times, it wast the worst of times, it was the age of reason, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, are you still reading this, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, there's someone behind you, about to kill you, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, did you notice that I wrote that bit twice, and what about summer and fall, anyway, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way, because apparently you couldn't use the word Hell then, of even the term deep-below kingdom of Pluto - in short, the period was so far like the present period, because the world never seems to change, does it, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
There is nothing more to be said,
Ding-dong! the Witch is dead!