Mr. Fooder’s olive elixir

It gets easier, though. I get-and-go my mornings with a half cupper of warmed over olive oil, and yeah-yep-yo, at firsty ya get the slicks, the panty-mudders, the slippery skids, but eventually-o the tummy liner done adapts and then demands! Ha-oh! I canty get out the door-o-door without my grumbler giving it to me mean as bees, and so I mollify my ornery Mr. Fooder with a sweet, slipply sippy sipply of nice, warm olive oil, and if feels mice-nice. Tis a blanket cozy covering snuggly yummy. And taker-a guess what elser? Yep-and-yo, I canny eat purdy much any-o-thing I desire after a good layer of the oil. Be it pepper ah-ha-ha, or brumal desserts of mettle’s testing, I canny cram and crum any-o-thing, ANY-O-THING down, down, down! And the bads just slick sloop right off me belly walls and down me boiling guts to be gnarshed and gnooshed. Belly strong! There’s great heave in my ho! Wouldn’t be in the possibilities iffen not for the quaff of olive oil’s quantity. So, steady-eddy onward! Stick to slicking that belly, b’hoyo, guy-o-my, my little trying pie. You’ll o-get there if you keep swallowing the golden grease, that olive elixir. I put my hands on your shoulders, o.

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