Found at last!!


The Pea Little Thrigs
by Mark Fitzsimmons
Once there was a mig bomma sow who lived with her pee little thriglets on a big fog harm. They lived a line fife slopping with gorge and wallowing in the pud muddle and all, until one night when the sig pow took the pee little thrigs aside for a tearious salk. "Oink," she wide, creeping. "Oink, oink oink!" (Or, to verbaphrase her porridge, "Boys, you header bed for the yorest fonder before harmer Fank bakes macon!")

So a few dours before haybreak, the pee little thrigs set out to fake their mortune in the feep dorest. Now the lirst fiddle pig's name was Joe. Poe jig said, "I'm gonna build me a haw strouse," and he began strickin' up paw. The second piddle lig's name was Luke, and Puke lig said, "I'm gonna build me a hick stouse," and he began stickin' up pigs. Now the lird piddle thig's name was Dave. He was a mite barter than his smothers, earning him the name pigtickle prack. Pave dig said, "I'm gonna build me a hone and storter mouse," and he began erecting clocks.

Now I won't same to clay that streaving waw or sighing ticks is easy 'cause it tain't rue, but it sell of a hot limper than stortaring moans, and by the time Pave dig had the fox riled for his pyreplace, the other poo tigs were bun dildin' and tootin' for ruffles. "Look at pigtickle prack," the pool crigs laughed, "pettin' like a swig over his stig bones." But pigtickle prack had seen tolf wacks that day, and he wept kurking.

Eventually the hone stouse was done, and all bree throthers had dwellable livings. Pave dig never did tell the other poo tigs about the tolf wracks, so Poe jig was shighty mocked to wake up to the sounds of a walivatin' soof.

"Piddle lig, piddle lig, ket me lum in!"

"Not by the chuzz on my finny fin fin!"

"Then I'll larf and I'll barf and I'll hoe your blouse down!"

So the wolf larfed and he barfed and he hew the blouse down, whereupon Poe jig run off to Puke lig's house and broke his wother. That wungry holf was right behind. "Piddle ligs, piddle ligs, I wants two pat figs, I does!"

"Not by the muzz on my fuzzly fuzzle fuzz!" said Puke lig.

"Then I'll larf and I'll barf and I'll hoe your blouse down!"

So the wolf larfed and he barfed and he hew the blouse down. Loe and Juke freely reeked and run off to the hock rouse and dolted the bore. The wungry holf got there quite rick, but not nasty fuff.

"Piddle ligs, piddle ligs, undolt the bore!"

"Not by the mollicles on my fandible!" said Pave dig (who never missed a chance to use a wig bird).

"Then I'll larf and I'll barf and I'll hoe your blouse down!"

Pave dig just smiled and said, "Woe blay!"

So the wolf larfed and he barfed and he larfed and he barfed, till he was foo in the blace, with no effectable notice on the stock ructure. The wig bad bolf sat down to cogitate on this uneventful prediction, when he noticed the choking smimney. Not bein' a very wart smolf, he chimed the climney and dropped tail first into a boiling stot of poo.

That wolf earned his bass and just about everything else that day, since Pave dig clammed the slover on the poo stot, leaving the other poo tigs mealing in squirthful reverie. Pave dig turned to his overweight brothers and said, "Molf wheat is beaner than leef, and it would bepig you hooves to conduce your resumption of faturated sats." The very next day they started a diet of vegetabically grown organelles, and they began electing crocks for two new hock roams for Lo and Puke jig.

This storal has two morys: First, of course, induce your retake of atty facets. Secondly, never ever dime clown chokin' smimneys.