Word Fun

(Disclaimer and warning: author reserves all rights to make no sense whatsoever. See comments below.)

Gallivanting about in their old suspenders and britches, those wily codgers made up their phony rigmarole just to hoodwink all the gullible ragamuffins. So, all the fiddle-faddle was fiction, a story, the kind of humbug meant to fuel the rumors and skullduggery surrounding the crashed jalopy in the vacant lot. Even Dorazela, the town's flibbertijibbit gossip, wasn't bamboozled by all the hullabaloo. At first, all were flabbergasted by the early morning accident, and how no one could find the driver. The mayor heard about the brouhaha in town, and became discombobulated upon learning that police were just lollygagging at the scene, collecting malarkey stories from folks who knew nothing. Obviously, with the car perched catawompass beside an old tree, the nincompoop driver had already skedaddled away somewhere. For some neighbors the crazy shenanigans were just too much drama for a peaceful Tuesday. Old Mrs. Folgerberg, flummoxed and watching it all from the porch, lost her balance and fell right into her dark green periwinkle, then went slightly berserk after burning up three loaves of her pumpernickel. 

Paramedics came, laid her down on the whatsit, put the thingamajig on her arm, but she was actually okay, just a bit confuzzled, but still ready to bake again. Everyone had their own poppycock theory about what really happened, but all of it was balderdash, just a bunch of imaginary curves to nowhere, like the most skewiffy road you could roll down, because these squirrelly townfolk could find thunderations of kerfuffle over any hair brained concoction of trouble. They've been lambasted so many times by their own embarrassed wives, but these flimflam fools only know their whatchamacallit secret handshakes, and that doohickey on top of their lodge caps, there's just no limit to the camaraderie between knuckleheads, especially when they say fiddlesticks to their typically wishy-washy ways, and get gobsmacked instead, like every Friday night is just for bodacious  caterwauling and other tomfoolery. But, one willy nilly day sooner than later, their goofy audacity will turn into decrepit and persnickety old age, but egads! In the meantime, nothing but baloney from these nattering nabobs and numbskulls!