Dilemma the Doofa was in a sticky situation. There was a bitter old Houlabadoula sitting on her left shoulder, and a small porcelain teapot balancing itself on the tip of her very large and pointy nose who was laughing at her – and not very nicely either.
“Inconspicuously incongruent!” Dilemma shouted. She slapped the silly sot off her schnozz, and it shattered on the soft sod. The pieces shimmered and glimmered, for it had been a magic teapot, sought after and killed for by Arab sheiks for millennia. Dilemma, being a sensible Doofa, picked up the pieces and arranged them in the pattern of a knitted Nordic sweater, and then she picked it up and put it on. It covered the bitter old Houlabadoula quite well, and Dilemma found she had solved her second problem. But the sweater was magic, and everyone knows you don’t wear magic clothes, especially if they’re knitted in the Nordic style.
With a crush and a ptang, Dilemma was suddenly thrown into a interdimensional portal. After a few minutes of boredom, she finally stuck the tips of her toes into the galactic goo that circled her around. It was pleasantly warm and filled her with cozy, motherly thoughts of love.
“Disgusting!” She declaimed dramatically. With a wrench and a trench, she threw herself headfirst into the starry slime and popped out onto the Chicago amtrak, holding a first class ticket to Suffield.
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