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Rubby Rob rubbed linseed oil on the school cormorant with a mix of dread and more dread--the kind of dread that an anopisthographer might feel when they spot ink on the other side of the page they're about to write on. Why was he doing it? Because of his bathykolpian friend Taarna. Maybe Rubby Rob was suffering from an acute case of colposinquanonia as far as Taarna was concerned, but he didn't care. If anyone dared to defame her, Robby Rub would refuse to decubitize--he would defend her with the dedication of a practitioner of ritualistic emunction.
As he gazed at the fuscoferuginous oil, the principal walked in. Robby Rob was gripped by a sudden rush of grapholagnia (for some bizarre reason), much like a librarian with hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian tendencies. But what could he say? Perhaps now might be a good opportunity for inaniloquence. The principal shot a horrifying look, stunned by RubbyRub's jumentous nature. Robert Rub lowered his head in shame, then looked back up before, lest someone suspect him of krukolibidinous tendencies.
"Do you have an explanation for this, Roberto?" the principal asked. "Or do I need to summon my lalochezia?"
"Though I am mildly maledicent, sir," Rubert answered, "I have a nudiustertian explanation."
The principal lifted his hand towards his mouth, almost overtaken by an onychophagic attack, but managed to regain control, and asked, "What happened?"
"Two days ago," Robertino began, "I was disturbed by the petrichor that permeated the school." The principal remembered the smell. "Being the quidnunc that she is, my friend Taarna wanted to know how to get rid of the smell. She came up with the idea of linseed oil. Naturally, I thought it was a dumb idea to spread the oil on our cormorant, but after a few minutes I was defeated by her recumbentibus." Hopefully, thought Ruberto, he won't find out that what did me in was the steatopygic nature of her torso.
"You know, I'm normally a thelemic type," said the principal in his ultracrepidarian style, "and since I suspect your action may have something to do with this Taarna's vesthibitionism..."--Rubber Robby gasped--"I shall leave you, Mr. Robird." The principal laughed at his witzelsucht.
What? Robby Rubbert Robbison wondered if the principal was accusing him of some kind of ximelolagnia. Rather than push his luck, he quickly covered the yoni he had painted on the bird, and took all of his zoopery tools to the store to trade them in for a packet of cigarettes (for Taarna) and an ice bucket.
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