Although me and me britva are all but cheery droogs of late, I find us fillying about the scrapping of me cables, but all skorry-like the malenky messel of krovvy nachinats to razrez me poor guttiwuts. That sort of vesch leaves me not nigh snoogy, but rather, fashed, with the messel of snuffing it having sloochat of me own plott, just to crast a nochy of zasnoot! Maybe I’ve still got the bolshy sneet vareeting about in this flip old gulliver of mine, that you shootish bratchnies cannae viddy, or maybe the mozg’s gone to hound-and-horny chepooka. Make no shilarny of it. The lot of you will never slooshy this poogly orange creeching about, wandering the depths of the void, crarking, “Oh, the starry strack! Oh Bog, me jeezny! The STRACK OF IT ALL!”
