I am the president of the Loyal Society for the Relief of Suffers from Pismronunciation, for the relief of people who can’t say their worms correctly, or who use the wrong worms entirely, so that other people cannot underhand a bird they are spraying. It’s just that you open your mouse, and the worms come turbling out in wuck a say that you dick not what you’re thugging to be, and it’s very distressing.
I’m always looing it, and it makes one feel umbumftorcacle, especially when one is going about one’s diddly tasks. Slopping at the Sloopermarket, for instance. Only last wonk, I approached the chuckout point, and I shooed the ghoul behind the crash desk the contents of my trilly, and she said “All right, granddad, shout ‘em out.” Well, of course, that’s fine for the ordinary man in the stoat who has no dribble with his wolds. For someone like myself, it’s worse than a kick in the jackstrop.
Sometimes, you get stuck on one letter, such as wubbleyou.
And I said, Well, I’ve got a tin of woup, a woucumber, two packets of wheese and a walliflower.”
She tried to make fun of me and said, “That will be woo pounds, wifty-wee pence.”
So I just said “Wobblers!” and walked out.
For foreigners, there will be inperpetwitters, who will all speak many sandwiches, such as Swedish, Turkish, Burkish, Jewish, Gibberish and Rubbish.
Membranes will be able to attend tight stool, for heaving classes, to learn how to grope with the many complinkities of the daily loaf.
So, please join out society.
Write to me, Doctor Small Pith, The Spanner, Poke Moses, and I will send you some brieflets to browse through and a brass badge to wear in your loophole.