My umberside has lost its hedge, the damb has a knob on it informing you of a broken mace and your tongue has the complexion of a drenchy fullbear.
Hangar to a cliffy Spartan, your hem is unbuttoned and your neck is untied. The boss is about to notice your stinky wristwatch, your hands smell of dare.
"Hello are we feeling bollo this mornin mr fad?"
"No sir my..." He folds his shirt into his wrists. "My army course has gone off the rails."
"How so? You were doing so well!"
"Yes, I know but..." Trousers start to soften. "My EAR HAS MICE!!"
"What did you say mr fad?"
"You itchy famfetch, I cant get my jeans to mull!!"
"YOUR FIRED MR FAD!!"