Spoonerism's

[Jake]

Rod...........You are a Genious!!
Give us mome sore please!

[ROD]

Once there was a mig bomma sow who lived with her pee little thriglets on a big fog harm. They lived a line fife slopping with gorge and wallowing in the pud muddle and all, until one night when the sig pow took the pee little thrigs aside for a tearious salk. "Oink," she wide, creeping. "Oink, oink oink!" (Or, to verbaphrase her porridge, "Boys, you header bed for the yorest fonder before harmer Fank bakes macon!")

So a few dours before haybreak, the pee little thrigs set out to fake their mortune in the feep dorest. Now the lirst fiddle pig's name was Joe. Poe jig said, "I'm gonna build me a haw strouse," and he began strickin' up paw. The second piddle lig's name was Luke, and Puke lig said, "I'm gonna build me a hick stouse," and he began stickin' up pigs. Now the lird piddle thig's name was Dave. He was a mite barter than his smothers, earning him the name pigtickle prack. Pave dig said, "I'm gonna build me a hone and storter mouse," and he began erecting clocks.

Now I won't same to clay that streaving waw or sighing ticks is easy 'cause it tain't rue, but it sell of a hot limper than stortaring moans, and by the time Pave dig had the fox riled for his pyreplace, the other poo tigs were bun dildin' and tootin' for ruffles. "Look at pigtickle prack," the pool crigs laughed, "pettin' like a swig over his stig bones." But pigtickle prack had seen tolf wacks that day, and he wept kurking.

Eventually the hone stouse was done, and all bree throthers had dwellable livings. Pave dig never did tell the other poo tigs about the tolf wracks, so Poe jig was shighty mocked to wake up to the sounds of a walivatin' soof.

"Piddle lig, piddle lig, ket me lum in!"

"Not by the chuzz on my finny fin fin!"

"Then I'll larf and I'll barf and I'll hoe your blouse down!"

So the wolf larfed and he barfed and he hew the blouse down, whereupon Poe jig run off to Puke lig's house and broke his wother. That wungry holf was right behind. "Piddle ligs, piddle ligs, I wants two pat figs, I does!"

"Not by the muzz on my fuzzly fuzzle fuzz!" said Puke lig.

"Then I'll larf and I'll barf and I'll hoe your blouse down!"

So the wolf larfed and he barfed and he hew the blouse down. Loe and Juke freely reeked and run off to the hock rouse and dolted the bore. The wungry holf got there quite rick, but not nasty fuff.

"Piddle ligs, piddle ligs, undolt the bore!"

"Not by the mollicles on my fandible!" said Pave dig (who never missed a chance to use a wig bird).

"Then I'll larf and I'll barf and I'll hoe your blouse down!"

Pave dig just smiled and said, "Woe blay!"

So the wolf larfed and he barfed and he larfed and he barfed, till he was foo in the blace, with no effectable notice on the stock ructure. The wig bad bolf sat down to cogitate on this uneventful prediction, when he noticed the choking smimney. Not bein' a very wart smolf, he chimed the climney and dropped tail first into a boiling stot of poo.

That wolf earned his bass and just about everything else that day, since Pave dig clammed the slover on the poo stot, leaving the other poo tigs mealing in squirthful reverie. Pave dig turned to his overweight brothers and said, "Molf wheat is beaner than leef, and it would bepig you hooves to conduce your resumption of faturated sats." The very next day they started a diet of vegetabically grown organelles, and they began electing crocks for two new hock roams for Lo and Puke jig.

[Guest]

How about a Bonking good Steer? could do with one now actually

[Jake]

Excuse me padam this pie is occupewed.

[SAM SPARKLE]

Rear Deeders, how your beds. Let us salute the eponymous master of the verbal somersault, the Rev. William Archibald Spooner. He left us all a legacy of laughter. He also gave the dictionary a new entry: spoonerism. The very word brings a smile. It refers to the linguistic flip-flops that turn "a well-oiled bicycle" into "a well-boiled icicle" and other ludicrous ways speakers of English get their mix all talked up.
English is a fertile soil for spoonerisms, as author and lecturer Richard Lederer points out, because our language has more than three times as many words as any other – 616,500 and growing at 450 a year. Consequently, there's a greater chance that any accidental transposition of letters or syllables will produce rhyming substitutes that still make sense – sort of.

"Spooner," says Lederer, "gave us tinglish errors and English terrors at the same time."

Born in 1844 in London, Spooner became an Anglican priest and a scholar. During a 60-year association with Oxford University, he lectured in history, philosophy, and divinity. From 1876 to 1889, he served as a Dean, and from 1903 to 1924 as Warden, or president.

Spooner was an albino, small, with a pink face, poor eyesight, and a head too large for his body. His reputation was that of a genial, kindly, hospitable man. He seems also to have been something of an absent-minded professor. He once invited a faculty member to tea "to welcome our new archaeology Fellow."
"But, sir," the man replied, "I am our new archaeology Fellow."
"Never mind," Spooner said, "Come all the same."

After a Sunday service he turned back to the pulpit and informed his student audience: "In the sermon I have just preached, whenever I said Aristotle, I meant St. Paul."

But Spooner was no featherbrain. In fact his mind was so nimble his tongue couldn't keep up. The Greeks had a word for this type of impediment long before Spooner was born: metathesis. It means the act of switching things around.

Reverend Spooner's tendency to get words and sounds crossed up could happen at any time, but especially when he was agitated. He reprimanded one student for "fighting a liar in the quadrangle" and another who "hissed my mystery lecture." To the latter he added in disgust, "You have tasted two worms."

Patriotic fervour excited Spooner as well. He raised his toast to Her Highness Victoria: "Three cheers for our queer old dean!" During WWI he reassured his students, "When our boys come home from France, we will have the hags flung out." And he lionised Britain's farmers as "noble tons of soil."

His goofs at chapel were legendary. "Our Lord is a shoving leopard," he once intoned. He quoted 1 Corinthians 13:12 as, "For now we see through a dark, glassly..." Officiating at a wedding, he prompted a hesitant bridegroom, "Son, it is now kisstomary to cuss the bride." And to a stranger seated in the wrong place: "I believe you're occupewing my pie. May I sew you to another sheet?"

Did Spooner really say, "Which of us has not felt in his heart a half-warmed fish?" he certainly could have – he was trying to say half-formed wish.

Lederer offers these other authentic spoonerisms: At a naval review Spooner marvelled at "this vast display of cattle ships and bruisers." To a school official's secretary: "Is the bean dizzy?" Visiting a friend's country cottage: "You have a nosey little crook here."

Two years before his death in 1930 at age 86, Spooner told an interviewer he could recall only one of his trademark fluffs. It was one he made announcing the hymn "Kinkering Congs Their Titles Take," meaning to say "Conquering Kings."

So if you have made a verbal slip, rest easy. Many have. Radio announcer Harry Von Zell once introduced the president as Hoobert Heever. And Lowell Thomas presented British Minister Sir. Stafford Cripps as Sir. Stifford Craps.

Thanks to Reverend Spooner's style-setting somersaults, our own little tips of the slung will not be looked upon as the embarrassing babblings of a nitwit, but rather the whimsical lapses of a nimble brain. So let us applaud that gentle man who lent his tame to the nerm. May sod rest his goal.