The spats-wearing reader will recall the writer’s affections for a certain base-and-ball-ist and member of the landed gentry by the name of Malcolm Clapsaddle. His name, you will agree, is wondrous, a cornucopia within which are numberless sets of Russian nesting dolls, and within each of those: multitudes.
And so, still, yet, alas, thus, and alack this is Malcolm Clapsaddle surrounded by the things that one would suspect: Malcolm McDowell, a devastating gonorrhea culture and a saddle. It is thus because thus it is:
This has been Malcolm Clapsaddle surrounded by Malcolm McDowell, the clap and a saddle.
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