Her cromulence was matched only by his fecklessness.

Her cromulence was matched only by his fecklessness. His spats matched her duvet cover. The neighbors' vehement objection to their wedding marked the start of a series of

ghastly apparitions that would appear over their marriage bed without notice, scaring the matching pajamas off the pair. The worst one was perhaps the huge head of Mrs. Abernathy,

who had long, dark stingy hair that fell in front of her face in a state of disorder, and pale, translucent skin,

the immediately showed if she was blushing. Her forehead was smooth and shiny like a cooked and peeled egg, and her generous teeth made up for her stingyness tresses. Her nose was

Do I have onion breath?" I didn't want to answer. "Dhooo I?" she BREATHED on me. I tried not to gag. Her big wide mouth stretched to its limits, as far as the east is to the west.

I could see something hanging from her uvula. It was something that had rotted in her mouth. It looked like it had been human flesh. "No, you don't have onion breath. Tomb mouth is

what your condition is called." "Tomb mouth?! Me?! I certainly do not have tomb mouth you rapscallion, you." I was already in motion getting out before she could finish. The window

to freedom was a yawning portal out of the subterranean mysteries of my soul. I leapt out obscurity to the front of an Off-Broadway theater. On the marquee: Tomb Mouth, starring

Fran Dresher, in her first role since winning 3 Tonys for "Waiting for "Waiting for Godot" to Begin." The Toledo Blade said, "Tomb Mouth is like running away with your teacher."