What ails thee mine mournful, melancholy fellow, ye sorrowful golden teardrop floundering through thy globular and glassy eyrie placed upon mine mantelpiece? Doth not flavorful fish food flutter down upon thy tap wat'ry table like the epicurean dreams of Apicius? Speak now, oh cousin o' the carp, or forever still the bubbles that fizz from thy frowning lips.
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Dost thou suppose I wouldst allow thy succulent self to be salted and fermented into delicious garum?
Well, perhaps thou supposest correctly, and thou'rt mournful as befits thee.
Posted by: Quicquid | September 07, 2005 at 09:58
"Full centimeter five thy father lyeth..."
That makes three of us who could put on buckle hats and go straight to work at Plimouth Plantation.
Posted by: Bleak Mouse | September 07, 2005 at 11:41
Stop, you are hurting my ears.
Posted by: Mortimer Shy | September 07, 2005 at 14:24
Cheer your goldfish with a recitation of "Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes," by Thomas Gray.
Posted by: Amy | September 08, 2005 at 21:34