FREEP-SLEEP
Newest addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:
freep-sleep (n.) – descriptive of a slumbering state punctuated by the short sharp sounds of sliders and skillsaws in a bed of roses, a fancy fold-away camp cot, or a chic chesterfield; an expression coined by an intrepid Canadian Broadcast Corporation television technician with idle hands and a penchant for the mellifluous melody of a well-worn 'whoopee' cushion
e.g. As Foxy Fladderbister, (better known as "The Bombshell from Ballycumber"), examined the flatus-factor in the food menu at the tastefully appointed Vixen Vegan Restaurant on the corner of Glutt Lodge and Famagusta in Big Beaver, Saskatchewan, she realized that her need her forty winks without freep-sleep looked far more inviting than a plate full of wilted watercress coated in a tarty Tasmanian Devil dressing with a thick layer of fetid-smelling crumbly cheese on top, and a baby-bear-sized bowl of tepid to the taste squash soup garnished with three sticks of cinnamon, two half-baked croutons, and a sprig of fourteen-day-old, organically-grown, non-genetically-modified, atomically-delicious, grassy green parsley (or as Latin-lovers call it, "petroselinum crispum").
Contributed by: Chaucer Oswald-Twistle, (a scallywag of sorts, a part-time CBC clock-watcher, and a downsized miller by trade), has few accomplishments to his name other than feeling “slightly squeamish” about stamp-collecting or, as 14th century English put it, “somdel squaymous of farting”.
freep-sleep (n.) – descriptive of a slumbering state punctuated by the short sharp sounds of sliders and skillsaws in a bed of roses, a fancy fold-away camp cot, or a chic chesterfield; an expression coined by an intrepid Canadian Broadcast Corporation television technician with idle hands and a penchant for the mellifluous melody of a well-worn 'whoopee' cushion
e.g. As Foxy Fladderbister, (better known as "The Bombshell from Ballycumber"), examined the flatus-factor in the food menu at the tastefully appointed Vixen Vegan Restaurant on the corner of Glutt Lodge and Famagusta in Big Beaver, Saskatchewan, she realized that her need her forty winks without freep-sleep looked far more inviting than a plate full of wilted watercress coated in a tarty Tasmanian Devil dressing with a thick layer of fetid-smelling crumbly cheese on top, and a baby-bear-sized bowl of tepid to the taste squash soup garnished with three sticks of cinnamon, two half-baked croutons, and a sprig of fourteen-day-old, organically-grown, non-genetically-modified, atomically-delicious, grassy green parsley (or as Latin-lovers call it, "petroselinum crispum").
Contributed by: Chaucer Oswald-Twistle, (a scallywag of sorts, a part-time CBC clock-watcher, and a downsized miller by trade), has few accomplishments to his name other than feeling “slightly squeamish” about stamp-collecting or, as 14th century English put it, “somdel squaymous of farting”.
posted by BREAKWATER BIRD at 8:15 AM
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