The slimikin oporopolist sat upon the worn deck chair. Being one of the greatest philargyrists there ever was, he was considering a new career. Preferably something fun and well-paying, for James was rather pamphagous in his eating habits and required a “good proper meal,” three times a day. Being a poor old fruit-seller didn’t always cut it. He dreamed of fish and veal and little cakes, such as those his mother would come out with all the time.

Alas, not many would hire an elderly, epalpebrate man who used copious flosculations to embroider his speech.

“I really hate this,” grumbled James resentfully. “My unique hirquitalliency ought to be an asset.”

He sighed.

He dropped a tantalizing, sugary plum into his gaping mouth.

He quaeritated the Lord why life was so cruel. “Alas, I am plagued with eternal scaevity,” moaned James. “Nothing ever goes my way. Nothing.” His vanmost desire was to have wealth the size of a house, and this was a high expectation..

Ah, it was like losing an eternal game of piladex.