Hey ill Jill; it’s Gil, from the mill on the hill. Still feel like swill? Take a pill, or grill your fill of dill till you kill that chill. And send me the bill (as long as it’s nil).
Hey sick chick. It’s Rick from the Brick. Did you get my salt lick? I know I know – ick. But it’s no trick. Make it slick quick and you’ll soon kick like a mick. I saw it in a flick… Dick? Or was it Click? Maybe that one with Jiminy Glick, who knows. I saw it with Nick, but I’m not asking that prick since he flicked my Bic into the sticks.
Hey unwell Bell. It’s “Pel” Mel, from BC Tel. I hope you’re through the bad spell and smelling swell, like Steve Carell in a dell, not Normal Fell on a carousel. I got new intel from Pharell : if you sell some gel to Nell you can propel yourself out of hell. If it works, give Dev Patel a yell.
Hey rude Jude. It’s King Farood, the skewed and the nude. Not to be crude, but… is my ballyhooed soul food only as good as something that’s pooed by something that mooed? Or do you elude because my messages are queued and havent been viewed? They weren’t just spewed: they were hewed, glued, bambooed and shampooed. In lieu of being clued, I’ll assume your mood is screwed since you’ve been flued. You’re not being booed — this is no feud. I know it’s tough to be zooed instead of canoed, to feel chewed by the brood of a tattooed prude when you’d rather be wooed with much gratitude by a shoed rich dude with a love attitude. But what are you gonnado.
Hey birthday Fay, may I just say: tres Hooray! I’d have painted you a gay Monet on clay, but I only have some stray grey left to lay, and anyway, I do it for pay or it’s nay, no way, be you Jose, Che, a fey Bobbly Flay, or Gabor Mate with a dray of latte. Ok?
Hey slough-foot Sue, it’s LouLou II. No, cuckoo, not Shamu the gnu from Peru you drew — the kangaroo in the tutu from the Kalamazoo crew. Yoohoo! boo. Tell me do: is it true it was you who threw some goo like Mountain Dew on Tatoo, that Jew I knew? I mean I heard it flew, but ew. You knew he was blue because he never grew; so why the Uhu glue in his new brown shoe? You you you.
Hey banana Deanna — it’s Dan Tanna, from Tarana. I got a questiona : flora or fauna? It’s an answer I wanna, with an ice cold Corona brought by Rhianna dressed as a pirhana to me where I yawna with Panama Lana, the ma of my spawna, on the front lawna of Zona Fantana, my olde stone mansiona, in beautiful downtown Equatorial Ghana. At least that’s my plana.
Hi-ho slim Kimbo. Yo — it’s Timko, from Tim Co. I was solo after polo, having a gas smoking Jimbo’s grass reading Rimbaud’s sass before hauling my nimble ass to limbo class, when my friend Milo Tazz buzzed me to razz my bimbo lass for taking a chemo pass. Imagine the nerve.
Hey Sweet Tweet. It’s Neat Pete, the fleet of feet, chillin’ on a petite seat beneat’ Cleat Street to beat the heat with a frozen meat treat, and Deet my teat afor I greet the wheat yield in Farmer Cleetus’s field. That’s where the mosquitas are the real deal, been known to beat us, they like to eat us, me and Neil, like a fetus and with zeal. They made a meal of Jessica Biel–only left her congealed right heel. But who wouldn’t?
Hey diddle diddel, little poodle. It’s “Brittle” Brad Tuttle from the middle of the griddle — long time no yodel. Dya recall the doodle on a paddle of the double cattle battle you peddled to the huddle at Fidel’s Piddle Puddle? Its subtle riddle was a muddle to my noodle (though I wouldn’t know Yoda with a cudgle from a bubble of spittle on the mantle), so forgive the trouble of my meddle, and I don’t mean to tattle, but the street scuttle is the haggle for your fiddle-faddel got you gaggles of giggles and oodles of cuddles. Is that true?
Hey, clean Corinne. It’s mean joe spleen, the “ballpeen dean”. I don’t mean to intervene, so cream the chlorine, but did you glean my lean teen zine, Keen Ravine? With a wee bit of encouragin I got Mary Steenburgen and Ween to make green bean Satine with a sturgeon. Next issue they’re purging, and presales are surging, so I’m verging on merging with Virgin (they’re urging). If it happens I’ll be splurging, so make a list.
Hey busy Lizzie – it’s Sneezy, the dizzy and woozy. I’m not crazy lousy, it’s not a real doozy (I still look snazzy), just a bit fuzzy and another bit snoozy, wishing a classy lassy who smells like a daisy in a onesie or twosie (I’m not that choosy) or a sleazy floozie like Boozie Suzie would bring me a freezie and go rent me Newsies, and play bluesy Ozzy while dressed like a Nazi. Or at least ditzy Mitzi, who met me on Chatsy, and sounds Talahassee but is right here in BC, would get me right breezy on Martini & Rossi during strip Yahtzee with the guy who played Potsie. Sure, she’s pricey, and a little bit licey, and maybe she looks a bit much like Ruth Buzzi. .. but she’s ritzy and easy and won’t make me say Pleasey. I don’t care if it’s cheesy; we’d all be most grazi to be made that cozy and play Tickle My Toesies or Look Out Belowsies until we feel dozy and off to sleep mosey. We both know it’s true, I don’t have to supposey.