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Tales From Beyond The Enchanted Prong Hills

The Poetic Eels Of Lake Quimby

Mike

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On the southern shore of the mysterious amoeba shaped Lake Quimby lived a young boat builder called Anglepoise. Anglepoise had a relatively easy life for since the inhabitants of Lake Quimby's shoreline preferred to sail in large wooden spoons there wasn't much demand for his trade and he was able to enjoy a fairly light workload. This left a considerable amount of time for Anglepoise to pursue his main interest which was teaching the eels of Lake Quimby how to write limericks.
Now, Anglepoise's eels were not stupid. They could speak up to five oriental languages, solve partial differential equations and even understand why Jewish people have such appalling taste in wallpaper. However, try as they might they just could not get to grips with the rhyming and metering mechanisms of jocular limericks. This had caused a considerable amount of frustration for Anglepoise for he had been teaching his eels for eight and a half years now and failed to get a single eel to compose a complete working limerick. It was also putting a strain on his relationship with his girlfriend Armagnac and threatening any chance of his blowing raspberries on her bottom, a fetish which Anglepoise particularly enjoyed but which Armagnac had hitherto denied him.
It was approaching midnight of the annual Saint Pingy's Day Ball when Armagnac finally issued Anglepoise an ultimatum.
"Anglepoise Sneeze-Factor," she scowled, "If you don't take me to the ball immediately I shall stamp my foot."
"Just another five minutes, dear," said Anglepoise, "Conrad's composing. I feel sure that this time he's going to produce a proper limerick."
"He's being trying to write a limerick for the last eight and a half years!" snapped Armagnac, "I hardly think another five minutes is going to yield any results."
Slowly she raised her left foot off the ground.
"Please, darling. Don't stamp your foot," begged Anglepoise, "Look at him, he's concentrating terribly hard."
The eel was indeed giving an awful lot of thought to his task. He would occasionally close his eyes in deep contemplation and then sometimes stare fixedly at the sky. Every now and then his elongated body would squirm in frustration as the words to his poem struggled to arrange themselves in his head. Suddenly, the fish jolted, grasped a charcoal stick in his tail and began frantically to scribble down the fruits of his inspiration. When he'd finished, he handed (or rather finned) the parchment to Anglepoise and sat back with a smug, self-satisfied smirk on his face. Armagnac snatched the poem from him and read it out.

"There once was a sandwich of tuna
Who fancied himself as a crooner
It became such an issue
That he folded a tissue
And went home."

"It's crap!" she snapped, "It's dreadful! Why do you waste so much time on those stupid eels?"
Conrad's face dropped.
"Don't call my eels stupid," said Anglepoise, "You know they can speak up to five oriental languages, solve partial differential equations and understand why Jewish people have such appalling taste in wallpaper."
"I don't care if they can fart the 1812 Overture," said Armagnac, "They can't write limericks to save their sad, miserable, pathetic lives! If you think I'm going to let you blow raspberries on my bottom then you're as stupid as your eels." She raised her left foot higher and higher until her knee could bend no further.
"No!" yelled Anglepoise.
But to no avail. Armagnac drove her foot solidly to the ground stamping a firm footprint in the pebbly beach of Lake Quimby.

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