Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

A....r and many another has sought every cranny of his natural orifices, every pox-hole of his worm- eaten flesh, every fat-fold of his obese person, yet his happiness was to be threatened, his faith in the Order of Things shaken, his whole soul thrown upon a novel and doubtful enterprise, and that at a moment when it might have been thought (go on, Hassan !) that Heaven itself had no more to offer him. It was one day of spring at W.nds.r. Mrs Ar- thur P...t lay in a bath of sticky sperm, not P...t’s, not the K...g’s ! Whose, then, you ask ? The sticky sperm of Kluckchoo, the Human Corkscrew. Fresh from his laurels at the Empire, the Hu- man Corkscrew had been commanded to appear before the K..g. If he can do that with his body, what will he not be able to do with his prick ? Thought the witty little woman, the worthy pupil of Immanuel Kant. She fitted act to deduction, and an hour after the performance the trouble-giblets of Kluckchoo was worming about in the universally admired cunnikin of the fashionable nestlecock. His complaisance was however not without rea- son. Tell your old fumble monger, said he when her delirium was appeased, that I can give him a new sensation, and one of such delight that he will never have experienced the like, nay ! Nor the shadow of it. Do that to me, dear heart ! Cried the randy Moll Muckmeabart. Not I, said the expert, you would not get up for three days and more : such is the pleasure. This made her only the keener, and when he saw that she would cry a rape unless he consented — “ and you must see, darling, how necessary it is for anyone in my posi- tion to be able to do that at any moment — the witnesses are all ready, and you would not stand a chance ! ” — He abandoned the unequal con- test ; and the unique performance of Kluckchoo, the Human Corkscrew, began. [45]