A Flusterchuckle

“Our church is becoming the crosswords of the neighbourwood!” Mrs. Dogberry complained.  “Every day, more strainers are deriving at the door!”

“They have nowhere else to go, dear,” Reverend Dogberry explained.  “They need sanctuary and succor.”

“You’re the sucker!” his wife protested. “You’re excepting them in without referendums!  Surely there are other hostiles in town offering beds!”

“The hostels are overflowing,” Dogberry said.  “These poor unfortunates desire a better life, and we’re offering aid.”

“I applause them for perspiring to be better,” his wife argued, “but what about us?  We’re working our fingers to the stone, trying to pervade skelter for them!  The whole thing is a flusterchuckle!”

Reverend Dogberry looked up from the sermon he was preparing.  “A what?”

“A flusterchuckle!” his wife repeated.  “you know…like when everything goes all flopsy-curvy.”

“It can seem that way sometimes, but…”

“Sometimes?” his wife interjected.  “I know they’re human beans, but they won’t leave!  Surely we’re not indicting them to make the church their primal residual!  It’s unparalyzed in our history.”

“Still, we have a duty,” Dogberry said.

“I know, but conditionals are becoming intolerant!  You really must nip it in the butt!”

“Whatsoever ye do unto the least…” Dogberry began, but his wife interrupted.

“Don’t be so sanctimelodious! Chastity begets at home!”

“Alas, my dear, the needy are with us, so we must gird our loins.”

“I will not don a girdle,” his wife replied firmly, “not even to combat a flusterchuckle!”

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2023}