© 1996 Barry A. Warsaw


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 leopards.


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?