FLEEPLE
Newest addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:
fleeple (n.pl.) a strange sub-species of Homo sapiens known for being here one minute and gone the next, especially at rubber chicken lunch meetings and boring cocktail parties
e.g. Gertrude Noohoo, the 52-year-old former owner of the quirky yet beloved “Scourge of Fort Dork”, (a fine-dining eponymous establishment in Bucksnort, Tennesse), couldn’t wait to tell her nearest and dearest friends all about seeing three entertainingly enigmatic if not equiponderant documentaries entitled, I like Killing Flies, UNdone, and Camp Lonely-Hearts which opened to lukewarm leisure-challenged audiences and somewhat chilly reviews at military museums across North America; frankly, nothing would phase this fanciful fleeple in the least as Gertie couldn’t have given a flying paint fleck or tacky tank tune what the so-called artsy-fartsy critics claimed were far too many aim-to-please platitudes, skin-deep clichés, and paltry punning that went way over the heads of hokey folks and members of the hoi polloi.
Contributed by: Talladega Tucker, a seasoned slacker, squeeze-waxer, and sleight-of-hand wand-waver from a bilious backwater burg called “Beans Corner Bingo” in Maine if you please.
fleeple (n.pl.) a strange sub-species of Homo sapiens known for being here one minute and gone the next, especially at rubber chicken lunch meetings and boring cocktail parties
e.g. Gertrude Noohoo, the 52-year-old former owner of the quirky yet beloved “Scourge of Fort Dork”, (a fine-dining eponymous establishment in Bucksnort, Tennesse), couldn’t wait to tell her nearest and dearest friends all about seeing three entertainingly enigmatic if not equiponderant documentaries entitled, I like Killing Flies, UNdone, and Camp Lonely-Hearts which opened to lukewarm leisure-challenged audiences and somewhat chilly reviews at military museums across North America; frankly, nothing would phase this fanciful fleeple in the least as Gertie couldn’t have given a flying paint fleck or tacky tank tune what the so-called artsy-fartsy critics claimed were far too many aim-to-please platitudes, skin-deep clichés, and paltry punning that went way over the heads of hokey folks and members of the hoi polloi.
Contributed by: Talladega Tucker, a seasoned slacker, squeeze-waxer, and sleight-of-hand wand-waver from a bilious backwater burg called “Beans Corner Bingo” in Maine if you please.
posted by BREAKWATER BIRD at 12:33 PM
