Column #2

Augustus "Finky" Finknottle here, atop the horrible rumbling Wordkrinder, my Coale and Steam powered word juicer. The Authorities are constantly trying to shut this device down, not because of the noise and the billows of foul effluent from its drains, but the Indignity of having more horsepower-per-word than the National Armoury. But I will not hand it over to them, they will use it to punch endless meat-and-liquor tickets, a task far far beneathe its abilities.

Which brings us, as it were, to today's topic. My Editor, in every other guise, is a purveyoure of filthe and degrading literature. But in My Department, he seems to think that quality is paramounte. I am, if you can believe this my little columnists, Not living up to the terms of my contract! Not employing enough Verve and Genius in my columnar space!

"The masses will pay gratefulley for the handsome lithotype of Self and indulge me my every digressive," I assured Him.

He said that the people growe weary of useless rantes and attacks on the Management of Liverputty. They send their queries in hopefulle little packets that arrive on my desk and are then ignored so I can use my Advisory station to hurle invectives at my enemies, so goes the accusation.

"Yes," I reply, "and what is the matter with thate?"

My Editor insists that these complaintes mean something, singly and in toto. I say they are like rain on the roof. And there the matter stands today. My Readers adore me, and I them. There is no pressing need to Prove this by adressing them directley, if you follow my logic. But should a topique come through the transome that has merit, like the lump of lard floating to the top of the brothe, I will scoop it up. Now, to stir the pot and gleam the result:

-Finknottle