When I was a 15-year-old high school sophomore, I was a winner in the Scholastic Writing Awards, in the category of "humor". I either won third in the nation, or I was one of three overall winners, I can't remember which. But anyway, I was very proud that mine was the humor piece picked for publication in the Scholastic Voice. Looking back on it, I clearly owed a lot to John Lennon's prose style, but I'm still pretty proud. Here’s my story:
Once a puddle time, a lunga lunga time ego, there wasp a printercess what loved her life in an ivorly towel. She was a most unhappy, and long to seascape two z the beg ortside whirl.
Yards and yards passed. At no time did a ransom plintz come to rascal her and take her awry.
One fin day, the goldem printercess head some hoofsteeps clapping right under her ivorly towel.
"Rumpelstiltskin," killed out the plintz (for that was Rumpelstiltskin's nomenclatter) "Rumpelstiltskin -- leaden your hear, so thus I may Clyde thigh goldem stare," crawled the plintz, poetically.
The Hearse came ut first, fellowed with the plintz, who's name was Plintz Charmin? The Hearse was collared Spud.
"Nice view!" exhaled Spud.
All of a suddeath, the Kink hollowed out, "O, dottle dear! I'm coming ut to c u!"
"My graces," inhaled Spud. "What ull the Kink thing when he despises me up here?"
"He'll probably shut out," applied the printercess -- "What is this shear Hearse doing up here?" exclaimed the Kink.
The plintz jumped ot ther widow to safely.
"Sew much for hem," remade the Kink.
Thus spode the printercess:
"And now, my ditty, my patter, my plop -- four two many yards all together now I have been cooped up in this ivorly towel four two many yards all together now. I wheel get atop o tee Hearse and rum you dawn, I wheel."
And with a Harley Heigh Hoe Hearse, the printercess rammed hair feather oval, which mad him very angry and dead.
The plintz worst wading ortside. He lepered onto the Hearse behimed the printercess.
They spod away.
The capple lived in the Plintz's costle for quiet a will, as they would. All was at peaceful, but there was a nick at the door. In waltzed seven little min, whose nomens were Gruppy, Hippy, Prancer, Bushfull, Blitzen, Duck, and Mopey.
"Hello," said the seven little men, all for once. The Duck stooped out. He quote: "Ghoul day, my dam. We are the seven or so little droves, and have come to leave with you. So long as we reside in your aboat, good floor-shine will befall on you. But, howevil, you musk know one think: All seven droves are alluregic to frolgs. Oblong as you keep all frolgs out of the costle, weed shout stay."
And so, off course, the plintz's plintzdom flourished and prepostered, due to the droves' good loak sharm. Everly mourning, the droves went orf to work in a shoe shob, and they would comb home to a dinner propelled by the printercess's royal servits. Once the servits almosk serfed frolg legs for dinner, but locally the printercess stooped them in thyme.
One day, the plintz desidled to invite a live-lung frond, another plintz, to spend some thyme at his costle. This other plintz, named Plintz Todd, was very jelly and leffing. The verly day he derived, the plintzdom begat to grumble. The draw bilge studk, the mode flooded and the plintz's crowd fell of his head. And, worst awful, the fateful hearse Spud cooked the buggit. Midwhile, the printercess had growed least and least fond of the plintz, and more and more and more fond of Plintz Todd. It seams that the plintz had become a mizer and was now verily gritty. He worst always in the dungeon courting his many. This leaved plenty of thyme to strook up a real Asian ship with Todd. But the costle was still grumbling.
The droves reported to the printercess that a frolg had squeeshed his way insight off the costle. Batcherally, the royal capple sixspected Plintz Todd of kipping a pit frolg with him. His roob was searched thoreauly, but only a pear of aligrator shoes were find. They were set sapphire, and burd to ashes.
Yet, still more tragiletees happied. The droves gave a warming: Unlest the frolg was found and got red of in tree days, they would pick up their bugs and leaf, causing a navel-ending doob to curtsey the plintzdom.
The plintz and printercess and all the royal servits surged the empire costle, every neck and granny, every creak and corder, but there wasp no frolg to be find. At the end of tree days, the droves did indeed leaf, and the minuet the last drove, Mopey, leafed the costle, it grumbled to the groaned, kilting the plintz. The printercess and Plintz Todd were out in the guarding plating fowlers when the torrible accent befell the plintz. The printercess, who had grewed to hate him, cerebralated, and lightly kicked Plintz Todd. At the intact of her kick, Todd exploited and turned to toad.
"Why," grasped the printercess, "you oar reilly the Frolg Plintz!"
"Rabbit," quoth the Frolg Plintz, as he would, and boundled away from the grumbled costle he had destroyed and the comatoad printercess, never to be seed agent.
Which just goes to show you.