The Natives Are Questless

The Natives Are Questless A Jabberwocky Safairy By Penelope Schmott

 

            All this is verily true.  It happened in the slither jungle in peepest, parkest Africa, near the feroz sediment of the Tttalzo tribe (who are, you must know, distant kissing cuzzins of the Wa-Watusi.)

            Jungle-Rot Jonathan was leading a safairy through the slither jungle just when the summer is the heatest and the mothgeettoos are the blood-thirstiest.  The undergrowth (and of course, the overgrowth) was so thickening they could fairy walk.  It was, all in all, what with the swarthy insects and trailing veins and bouquets of sweat, a crocker, crocker day.  Galumphing through the slither, heaty jungle on a crocker day like this was presumptious, preposterous and you know, dumb.

            But still, Jungle-Rot Jonathon galumphed gamely forward through the peek, park jungle.

            The members of the safairy were Englishers who haled from the United Kingdom (which as all good drop-ins know is the homeland of the now defunct Beatles, boney Prince Charlie and puke rockers).   These Englishers were, in chronillogical order, Peter Pilgarlic, Gladys Glottis, Rebus Newcastle and Cynthia Crumwig.  They were companied by two native guiders who haled from the feroz sediment of the Tttalzo tribe, Mgumbo and Olagotha Ottawbum.  There was also a fat Corgi named Kenneth who probably had more brains than anybody else on the safairy except, of course, Jungle-Rot Jonathan.

            As Jungle-Rot Jonathan and his two trussed guiders hacked a path through the peep, park jungle, Cynthia and Gladys and Kenneth were perked atop an elepal they called Bruce. 

            “Ewwwww, tis sew ‘eaty!” exclamored Cynthia, fribbling at the groggs.  She waived her dainty white hankie at Jungle-Rot Jonathan who growled a manly growl.

            “Hi nif!  Hi never ‘ad an hinklin hit could be sew ‘eaty in such a divine place!” Gladys rorkled, twirling her little lavender parasol.  Kenneth yapped.

            “Africer hain’t divine!” snarled Jungle-Rot Jonathan. “Hand don’t be flappin’ yer humberlelly at the farkin’ elepal!  He might stampede and smoosh hus hall!”

            “Africer his divine,”  Gladys hissed behind her hand to Cynthia who snorted in agreement.

            Suddenly Peter began to brando his elepal gun wildly.

            “Hi want t’shoot a bloody lion!” he exclamored.

            “Bloody lion’s just as scarred o’you has you har o’it, mate,” Rebus informered Peter as he pacifically munchkined a green banana.

            “Hi nif, you bloody bugger! Hi hain’t scarred o’ no lion!” Peter shrieked, wondering at Rebus’ calm misdemeanor.

            “Coarse nut,”  Cynthia greedied..

            “We hall know ‘ow brave you har, Peter dear,” Gladys insured him, “we hall memoried ‘ow y’ killed that little fuzzy bunny at Easter, Hi nif!”

            At that momentous moment, Jungle-Rot Jonathan turniped and wiffled ferozly at the whibbling gibs in the roothles above.

            “What his hit??!!” Peter croaked, grappling his throttle.  He had taken a bit of Rebus’ banana and it was cot in his throttle.

            “Hit’s the biggest, ‘airiest, ferozest haardvark Hi’ve ever ladled me eyes onto, mates!”

            Peter pailed.  Gladys and Cynthia twittered as they were trysting to tune in Bird Rock, Kansas, on their Sony boomer box.  Kenneth was licking his privates. Rebus remaindered calm.

            Jungle-Rot Jonathan ridkled his elepal gun and silently worsed himself for forgetting the aardvark gun.  On his toes he tippied to a bush and peeped over it.

            The aardvark smiffled lardly, and Jungle-Rot Jonathan lumphed backwards in order to father self-presentation.  Gladys snoffered in terror, and Cynthia blinkered nervously.  Rebus was still  calm.  Peter gorked at him suspiciously.

            “Hi nif there’s novacaine in that jolly bananer, Hi nif!”  Peter exclamored, rorging with disgust.  With inpatience (and some outpatience too), Jungle-Rot Jonathan wiffled ferozly again.

            “Haardvarks his sensuous to noisome noise, they his, mates!”  he hoarsely croaked. Cynthia guggled.

            “Hi nif, this his a crocker haffair, hain’t hit, just bugger hit!  Hi nif!  Quiet crocker!”, she mused, tuning in Yuma, Arizona, on her boomer box.

            “Uff yer muff!”  Jungle-Rot Jonathan wasped.

            “Hi nif, ol’ Jungle-Rot Jonathan,”  Rebus detonated, “why don’t you uff hand bang the bloody haardvark with your elepal gun?!  Sorely ‘e hain’t goin’ t’ ‘arm hus now,  ‘e’s juice has scarred o’  hus has we har o’ ‘im, hain’t ‘e?  So bang the bugger.”

            “Oooooga-woom-chom-gop-doola!”  blithered Olagotha Ottawbum, but everybody ignoranted him because not one could conversationalize in Tttalzo-ise. 

            “Ralpdoodle-bow-oogle-dawgowoji"chop-chop!” scuddered Mgumbo, flaying the air with his arms.

            The aardvark again smiffled menacingly, and Jungle-Rot Jonathan turniped to face Peter Pilgarlic who was looking, to say the least, surplussed.

            “ ‘e’s yer haardvark, Pilgarlic " you bang ‘im.”

            “Me?!  Why, Hi hain’t ever banged no bloody haardvark afore, Jungle-Rot Jonathan!  You bang ‘im!”

            “Hit’s yer safairy and yer ammernishin.  You bang ‘im.”

            “Hi padded you to come along be the guider, so you bang ‘im,”  Peter huffily retarted. “Hi nif, Hi hain’t gonna bang that jolly haardvark!  Hi just wanna ‘ang ‘is hepidermous hon me bloody wall.  Hi just wanna show the jolly snapshots o’ me him me bloody pith helmet.  Hi don’t wanna kill no beastie.  Hain’t that yer specialty, Jungle-Rot Jonathan?”

            “Roof-duffle-cowgle-joliji-lothawham-gubble-gubble!”  shouted Olagotha in alarming alarm.

            “Dittow!”  yellowed Mgumbo.

            “Aw, uff yer muffs!” snarled Jungle-Rot Jonathan.  “Bang yer bloody haardvark, Pilgarlic, afore ‘e gets haway!”

            Suddenly the aardvark rolfed ferozly out of the brushes and bushes, and gubbled up the whole safairy except for Olagotha Ottawbum and Mgumbo, who knew the habits of aardvarks, of course, being natives themselves, and took to flight just in the knickers of time.  So that was the somewhat crocker end of Jungle-Rot Jonathan, Cynthia Crumwig, Peter Pilgarlic, Gladys Glottis, Rebus Newcastle, the elepal called Bruce and (my favorite) the fat Corgi named Kenneth.  All of this has a moral, of course:  aardvarks in the bushes wait for no Englishman.

Or, as you may prefer, an aardvark in the bush is worth at least three hyenas in your lunch box.  Or, pithy helmets and elepal guns do not a hunter make.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Glossy Glossary

crocker adj., bad, real bad, disgusting, from a pompous English teacher, Mr. Crocker.

nif v., say (as in I nif!, as Uk folks sometimes say)

pilgarlic n. Ye Olde English for “bald as a peeled garlic”. Favorite



I hope the rest is self explanatory.