Well now listen, God’s little flutings, I heard that Hawaiian harp which passes for your nervous system go wingdinging out into the great North night as I went flying south. What a miserable old mother are you. Anyway, Grellings, which is the groan made by the little skeletal bones of the metatarsal range when the wind passes over a prospector’s unburied sticks, well, Grellings, you were great, even if your name is Edmund. I’ve always preferred Kent, myself, dear viceroy to our own Jew...
