Slurring

Under The Affluence of Incohol

I go to the fridge looking for some words to drink.
Nothing there.
I call my friends."The pub! I'll bring the thesaurus." Agreed.
A stubbie. Exchange a few similes. Another stubbie.
Mix a few metaphors.

Hey, my friends say, "your slurds are starting to whirr.
You're under the affluence of incohol."
"No way," I reply, "I'm jober as a sudge."
My friends say I'm angling the queen's minglish.
I foe a threw insults back.
They call me a posspit.
They say "you know, Mir and better fours don't mix!"
What would nay though?

I have a bew more fears.
Febore I know it, the club is posing.
I'd stunk my last drubbie.
"Where's the posest club?" I ask.
"New hose? Let's wind fun."

We stralk along the wheat.
A cur lease par barses pie.
"Ello hoffy sir" I call out, ta rick you lately.
"Looking for mubble trakers?"

The cur lease par sterns and tops.
A blan in moo gets out and talks ooh ward me.
He holds out a rape tea corder.
He says
"Talk into this please until I say stop."
He is forking tunny.
"Could you gay that a sen?" I say.
He pea-reats simhelf.
"Fot the wuck moo do yean, pork into this tlease?
Eak spoper prenglish!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm arresting you for having a spoonerism level above the legal limit of 0.08 per hundred words. You will have to accompany me to the station."

Now I'm in sheep dit.
What started out as a bite with the noise, because of no fear in the bridge,
has nurned Terry, Terry vasty.
In the norming, I have to gee the sudge.
I have a very whore said.

"How do you plead?"

"Got nilty, whore onya" I say.
Whoops. He is pot rimnessed.

"I sentence you to four months silence.
Officer, take away his thesaurus.
You will be eligible for a dictionary no earlier than two months from now."

Dot will I woo? Fry mends won't mork to tea. I'm din is grace.
Cow will I hope with more funths of
license?


David Peetz