The Proverbist

When he was little he went to preschool. It was fun. It was A, B, C and Z, and 1, 2, 3 and free. It was short, sort and zippy snort.  It was “cat” and “rat” and “Mr. Dingly Bat.”

But then, things changed. He went to first. There he was introduced to second, uped to third and ushered into fourth, and on and on until he got it. His thinking extendified, his talking verbulated, his writing complimated. He mastered the art of expandification, the rhetoric of elaboronomy and the skill of eloquefusion.

He got a certificate, and could say pretty much anything — in a lengthy fashion.

He would have been left this way, prolix bollixed, but stuff happened.

He ran smack into a situation; it unnouned him. He had surgery; it deverbed him. His friend stabbed him in the back; it exlocuted him. For a time he was asyllabic, unworded and detongued.

And then, one day, with an “and” and an “or” he said  less which was more.

He delonged, delinged and delanged. He became a proverbist.

He went short on cats. He waxed brief on rats; he elaborated just a bit on a bat and spat, and he wrote a proverb about that:

A verbal hoot is a root-a-short-toot.


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