[ I have written a series of posts about the "pay the storm" bugaboos. I call it "The Stormpuke--Stormpay Story: Getting to the Heart of the Matter in Posts" . You can get it here. This nightmare is ongoing with no end in site. ]
I'm a little behind in keeping up with what's going on in nightmare land as far as stormpuke is concerned. I have several reasons for it, which none I cannot disclose at this time. It would only hurt my plans that I have been hatching ever since stormpuke announced their threat to all who use their services that you either use them solely, or kiss your accounts goodbye.
Meanwhile, I found the lyrics of the Mr. Grinch song, and I thought I would put Mr. Grinchky instead of Grinch, as that's what Steve Girsky is: A GRINCH. A thousand apologies to Dr. Seuss, as I'm sure he never imagined that his stories and songs would be popular far beyond the time of his death. I hope you rest in peace someday, whenever the nightmare with stormpuke is over.
Here is Mr. Grinchky's "song":
You're a mean one, Mr. Grinchky.
You really are a heel.
You're as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as charming as an eel.
Mr. Grinchky.
You're a bad banana
With a greasy black peel.
You're a monster, Mr. Grinchky.
Your heart's an empty hole.
Your brain is full of spiders,
You've got garlic in your soul.
Mr. Grinchky.
I wouldn't touch you, with a
thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.
You're a vile one, Mr. Grinchky.
You have termites in your smile.
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick crocodile.
Mr. Grinchky.
Given the choice between the two of you
I'd take the seasick crockodile.
You're a foul one, Mr. Grinchky.
You're a nasty, wasty skunk.
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk.
Mr. Grinchky.
The three words that best describe you,
are, and I quote: "Stink. Stank. Stunk."
You're a rotter, Mr. Grinchky.
You're the king of sinful sots.
Your heart's a dead tomato splot
With moldy purple spots,
Mr. Grinchky.
Your soul is an apalling dump heap
overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment
of deplorable rubbish imaginable,
Mangled up in tangled up knots.
You nauseate me, Mr. Grinchky.
With a nauseaus super-naus.
You're a crooked jerky jockey
And you drive a crooked horse.
Mr. Grinchky.
You're a three decker saurkraut and toadstool sandwich
With arsenic sauce.
Comments