Two word story

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre, a rather

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre, a rather upmarket outfit,

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre, a rather upmarket outfit, startled the

we now return to the main sentence. 'startled' is related to 'the sound'

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre, a rather upmarket outfit, startled the large blackbird

we now return to the main sentence. 'startled' is related to 'the sound'

Indeed. That is why I added the comma. More importantly, the chapter is over long, never mind the sentence.

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre, a rather upmarket outfit, startled the large blackbird Her consort

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre, a rather upmarket outfit, startled the large blackbird Her consort encouraged to

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Double Seven

Emilio's appointment with Her royal and bejeweled Majesty and her puppy dogs turned into a farce after a particularly soggy charity soiree at which a few bright young and gifted artisans raised their impressive aprons and displayed some fascinating under-garments right out of fashion and jewelry samples from the royal collection that had been cleaned with utmost care by the servants of the local chapter of the Ancient and Accomplished Twizzle-Worzels, so the footman, clad all in green with yellow and purple polka dots on their very fashionable neck ruffs, could at least conduct a throrough review of the SOP for the treatment of silver forks during royal proceedings. Very few had ever been invited or encouraged to participate in charity soirees without getting washed first using a pumice stone and ph-neutral carbolic soap. But those late August days, when the birch and maple were felled, had been hot and very humid considering the longterm average temperature for Her Majesty's supper parties, thus few unwashed people were able to attend without bribing the footman and handing over most of their dirty washing basins and their dirty washcloths to the housekeeper at Her Royal Highness's swank establishment for expiring but inspiring vetinary students. After tea was poured onto the outside drain-cover for the ants to feed to their babies, the usual suspects gathered right behind the arras in order of seniority with the penultimate winner of Her Royal Highness's special prize pig sharpening her nails with a toothpick. Luckily, no bystanders saw anything of the irregular exchange between Her Royal Highness and the Hell's Angel Anti-Defamation league's self-inflatiing VIPs or there would have been a run on the food prepared by Mrs. Juana Huffmeister before even the last train had arrived from Waterloo at about half past nine in the morning. No corgis followed after the royal train, alarming Her Majesty's secret service to an awful over-reaction by the time they got the car started and their picnic basket suddenly began to leak despite a really tight seal put on by the Brown Seal Company (est. 1897) to prevent this very awful thing, so a flotilla of party ants formed a testudo* and followed the flow of honey from the point of no sticky inhibition getting in or out to the dusty ground littered with the remains of half-eaten oyster pies from Referendum Expectation parties. A lucid moment later, Giles Pottingshed-Smith (Emilio's private masseur) rubbed castor oil into Emilio's lower abdominal, lately developed, swollen abs, causing an irrevocable and ultimately quite painful rash that would never fade unless a false nose attached to a solar pump could be attached to a travelling salesman's portfolio at midnight by automated but completely safe transplantation making use of new and improved nylon sutures and reconstituted animal tendons dyed blue for luck. This being way beyond any reasonable way of conducting a mid-summer picnic, neither Her Majesty's nor the Prince of Astoria Ltd. CEO's plastic beakers could withstand the withdrawal vacuum exerted on the unhappy vessels prior to the first application of above mentioned castor oil by the above mentioned vetinary students before expiring. At their picnic venue after the rash had spread to Giles Pottingshed-Smith and his servants, twenty party ants put on a performance of Carmen (by Bidet) while washing their abdomens vigorously, but neither Her Majesty nor the royal butler could take their eyes off despite a warning that party ants ruin eyesight. That warning did not come without a postscript. Should a blind elephant or a deaf bat by chance tread on someone's cravat then the tabloid press would report an upsurge in tomato precipitation around the rim of Her Majesty's Easter Island tea caddy which had been left out in the rain for far too long. Nobody but the Queen of Spades crossed their fingers in front of Emilio who had lost his previously unshakable belief that party ants secrete putred and caponed urban slime from their nostrils while humming a sea shanty of a particularly unpleasant and unsavoury event which had taken a virus vector viper with no certificate from the Song Academy or Her Majesty's Choir Master. Consequently, when the royal curricle drew into the driveway of the King Alfred Centre for Norse Studies, the sound emitted from the party ants via their large amplifiers installed by plumbers from Pörn de Terre, a rather upmarket outfit, startled the large blackbird Her consort encouraged to go after