These are the only 4 letters I've done so far. Do you really
want to see all 26?
Dozens of dedicated, domestic dingos drink delireously of dry
dogwood daquaris during deafening, demoralizing defeats of
dangerously devised debates, daintily displaying dirty dentures to
disgusted yet drably dressed debutantes from Dakota.
Lofty, left-handed, lady lions lazily lift into the limelight
their lovely, leftover langostinos, launching licentiously lewd
lyrics laughingly over lunch-lurching, languid, lemon-licking
O Ominous, Observant Oracle from Omaha, observe your occult. Oh,
Olympic Obstacle of odoriferously offensive organic offal of
obviously oleaginous, ostensibly ordered, oblong origami
onagers. Oh, official ombudsman, omnipotent, omniscient,
omnipresent omnivore of okra-offering ogres and oafs, organize
your oligarchy. Oh, off-hour ordination, obstinate, old-school,
octogenaric Onlooker of Other's Omphali, operate your Ouiji. With
oomph and optimistic opacity, obligingly obfuscate this onslaught
of obtuse oratory, open this ossuary, our oriental oubliette
outrageous. Our outstanding ovation is owed to the one who
Ormuzd-like and with overwhelming oath, obeys his oneiromancy,
obtaining from the odd orifice the ova of Orestes, thus offering
orgasmic relief from my oppressive Obligation, my Ordeal, my Onus,
my Ostiole, which I on occasion, wear as an ormolu ornament on-top
my ordure, orphaned orb. I am Otto; obsequious and obedient;
opulent and orange.
Pandering panthers prey pathetically on paternal puttering parents
of pissed off pomegranates, pending possible pooling of pea-picked
pods in puddles of poodle piddle, passed on by prattling penguins.
Seven slovenly slugs slowly slithered sublimely such that several
sinister sword-swinging seagulls seized the situation to slice the
simple sinue so seductively yet semi-secretly. Six of the
slightly severed snails survived, and seemed seriously to search
for signs of their shaved sloth soulmates to share succor and
sympathize with their shockingly sordid story.
Wading in Waist-high Wordage...
Wonderfully and wisely worded, oh wiley Websterian
wunderkind. Wow, what a wizard! I was wary when I watched those
words wheel across my warm workstation like a waltzing wallaby on
Wall Street (a wake-mere which, I'll warn you, wrenched wearily at
my wambling womb). I wandered wanly, wantonly wishing I could wax
weird. Was I Warsaw?
Well, I'd worn out my welcome, and weeping,
I went to work on the weekend (on a whim) to wine the winking
Welsh waitresses and wipe the whimpering weighty weatherwomen
(web-spinners!) with whiffs of white whipped cream. Whoa! My
whiskers whistled as I whirled round. A woosh, and the whole
wildfire was widening toward the window, the winter wind working
its witchcraft. Wherewithal not withstanding, I withdrew to wrap a
wet and wacky wimple (one with the world woven into it in wire,
which I'd won at a Western wrist wrestling war) around a wren's
wing and wittily wrung wrinkles from it, washing out the wraith
with a wrathful whack! I worried it would worsen, but the
Worcestershire worms were worth it, as I wolfed down the woody
wisdom of the wife of a witless, wealthy, weapon-weilding
wisenhiemer. We weren't wasting water as we walked and wailed,
wandering like wallowing, wheezing, wall-eyed whales, wincing
wrechingly as we wadded up our waffle wafer waivers. Whew!
-The Webbed Wienie
P.S. Whaddya think of my write-up? Was I wrong to have wrought it?
© 1996 Barry A. Warsaw