I’m an unrepentant curmudgeon, I’m sorry to say. After “one of those days” my persnicketiness has been blunted by two glasses of wine, yet won’t put itself nicely to bed. Notice my passive voice. I’m not responsible–oh, no, not I! My only desire now is to hurl some insults at my blog readers. Not merely any insults, but the best kind, found right from the pages of Samuel Johnson’s dictionary.
All right, you fustian fubs, I’m going to frenchify your giddybrained giglets. You oysterwenches, give me your noddle and leave off your noious nonsense. Snivel, snivel, sneak up you smellfeasts! Flagitious flashers of finical fatwits!
Wow! I feel so much better. So relaxed. Thanks, Samuel Johnson. Didn’t I claim him as my historical soul mate? Curmudgeons we are; together we’ll be in heaven. Won’t that be fun? I won’t tell him of my Celtic heritage, nor let on that I’ve never lived in London. He might sneer at me if I did, tell me to go eat my oats, or worse yet, try to fig me. Ha! I’ll let you readers look that one up. Oh, come on, it’s not dirty, you little drabs!!
I almost feel like adding a yo-ho-ho, but I’ll leave that kind of language for Daniel Defoe, or for when I have a bigger bottle of gin in the cupboard.
Cheers! Now it’s your turn to lambaste me with your best insults. What’s that, you draffy dolts? Not up for it, you say? Hit me with your best shot!