Upon the departure of Mr Tad Curmudgeonly, Mr Roger Buggery had fallen into what in a more elevated personage might have been accorded the dignity of being described as a brown study, but which in the case of Mr Roger Buggery amounted to nothing more than a pissy funk, notable only for the quality of its nastiness. —
Mr Roger Buggery
Mr Roger Buggery, anticipating a return to the regime of slopping out wastepaper baskets, did not find upon engaging in what meagre introspection he was capable of, that his objection was to the regime of slopping out wastepaper baskets per se. As well as being just plain nasty, he was - as, it must be said, a matter of necessity - as broad-minded as the next fellow, and quite ready to overlook even quite major solecisms involving e.g. personal hygiene. No. That was not the source of his discomfort, of the affront to his hygge. Mrs Roger Buggery could continue the regime of slopping out wastepaper baskets until the cows came home. The source of his discomfort was Mr Tad Curmudgeonly. Mr Tad Curmudgeonly ate away at his mind, in a way that wouldn’t have happened if his blackmailer had been someone lower down the social order, such as that upstart Vercingetorix Bumhole. —
Mr Tad Curmudgeonly, Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole
Mr Roger Buggery mounted once more the staircase, passed by the boudoir door on the landing, outside which he muttered, nastily, “chill”, and, nastily, “peace”, without, mercifully, attracting further excoriations from the genius loci. Thence, suspirating, he passed through into the nasty, foetid Buggery Schlafzimmer and … er … squatting in a most unseemly fashion, reached under the nasty, foetid mattress and pulled out the nasty foetid suitcase. Again he rummaged with nasty, idle curiosity through the amorphous pile of lurid bikinis and g-strings and cubic zirconium gewgaws and baubles. Again he happened upon the crumpled paper purporting to be a CERTIFIED COPY OF AN ENTRY OF MARRIAGE which, as previously and every bit as purposelessly, he proceeded to photograph from several angles. Having to all appearances performed this office to his satisfaction, he recommenced rummaging through the amorphous pile of lurid bikinis and g-strings and cubic zirconium gewgaws and baubles, the performance of this latter office being to all appearances decidedly less to his satisfaction. —
Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage, The nasty foetid suitcase, Schlafzimmer
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