1,2,3 de Oliveira 4.

5,6,7 Dom DeLuise 8...1,2?

OU812? (Burp!) Paul Prudhomme, perhaps. 1, 2, 3, 4...

My mic was cutoff. The audience was visibly upset. My slam poem, commemorating the gruesome devouring of Van Halen by chef Paul Prudhomme was a disaster. I bolted for the exit,

realizing I shouldn't have followed eHow's advice & researched new slang terms for my slam poem. I must have misused "crack the fat" "fat afro mon" or "Van Halen Piledriver." I ran

off stage to heckling "kermit crammers coming the raw prawn, lets obscond his ursery!" Diggers & Wendel pushed me back into the limelight. My prose slammed in a mean sea of iambic

blank verse but swam free on the other side. Not to be undone so easily and using its intimate knowledge of prose structure poetry countered with a hanging participle at 50 paces.

This helped with his folding stories. His coach was also folding stories. There he didn't have to worry so much about hanging participles. It was a huge relief, to say the least!

yup

And this is the end of the story, so it's off to bed without supper for you, my little scamp, until you can learn to type more than one word in your fold. Don't give me that look!