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          Ef I chuse to put a bullet like yu through the grill for 
heckling what business is that of yours, yu bullock?
          I don't know, sir. Don't ask me, your honour! 
          Gently, gently Northern Ire! Love that red hand! Let me 
once more. There are sordidly tales within tales, you clearly
understand that? Now my other point. Did you know, whether
by melanodactylism or purely libationally, that one of these two
Crimeans with the fender, the taller man, was accused of a cer-
tain offence or of a choice of two serious charges, as skirts were
divided on the subject, if you like it better that way? You did,
you rogue, you?
          You hear things. Besides (and serially now) bushes have 
eyes, don't forget. Hah!
          Which moral turpitude would you select of the two, for 
choice, if you had your way? Playing bull before shebears or the
hindlegs off a clotheshorse? Did any orangepeelers or green-
goaters appear periodically up your sylvan family tree?
          Buggered if I know! It all depends on how much family 
silver you want for a nass-and-pair. Hah!
          What do you mean, sir, behind your hah! You don't hah 
to do thah, you know, snapograph.
          Nothing, sir. Only a bone moving into place. Blotogaff. 
Hahah!
          Whahat? 
          Are you to have all the pleasure quizzing on me? I didn't 
say it aloud, sir. I have something inside of me talking to myself.
          You're a nice third degree witness, faith! But this is no 
laughing matter. Do you think we are tonedeafs in our noses to
boot? Can you not distinguish the sense, prain, from the sound,
bray? You have homosexual catheis of empathy between narcis-
sism of the expert and steatopygic invertedness. Get yourself
psychoanolised!
          O, begor, I want no expert nursis symaphy from yours 
broons quadroons and I can psoakoonaloose myself any time I
want (the fog follow you all!) without your interferences or any
other pigeonstealer.