If it was your usual cup of tea, wouldn't have already been made?

Did the doorbell 'strangley rang" because it rarely rings, or rang in a strange way?

Who is this 'It' person anyway? If indeed, they are a 'erson'.

All in all, another perplexing post from the hunter of mooses.

But I am in the middle of a coup d'etat of England in 1688 and haven't the time to finish deciphering this post.

--
"Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before. He is full of murderous resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by their ignorance the hard way."

One cannot decipher a post, one must conquer it!
One must dance in front of it in a shameful manner, screaming wilding that the linguists are all in league with the American Society for Wobbling Yellow Bellies!
If one does not do this then the post will think it has the better of you and become egotistical and very, very narcissistic.
You know your duty, now fulfill your obligations minion of the Freedom Society of Wild Yak Milk or the Irony Gods will smite your grandmother's dog.
You cannot live with that sort of shameful smoting on your conscience!
Your duty awaits with claws and pincers and nasty smells!
Have at it!!1!

--
Feel The Wrath.

I've heard of him.

Yo yo yo yo.

--
I'm so British, I shit monocles.

MY SPOON IS TOO BIG!

--
Life is not a succession of urgent nows, it is a listless trickle of why should I?'s.

I had donned my best wig before wading ashore to the tumult of the crowd.

As I approached the humble dwelling where It was waiting idly pulling on the bell-chain to no avail, I must have looked quite a sight, bewigged and be-splatted with mud from my wading ashore. My valet was in for a long night.

It offered me a cup of Indian leaves stewed in water, to which I replied that the ground grains of the beans left by the Ottoman Turkoman at Vienna were more to my taste, for the voyage across the sea had felt a bitter taste in my mouth, a bitterness that would only be assuaged by victuals more bitter.

It rang the bell once more and there was a silence, followed by what seemed to be a vigorous echo from some smaller bells attached to a clockwork ringing devise, on hearing this It commented “Sounds like a telling-bone, I wonder which the house-holder will answer first…” and it was at this precise moment that the door was opened by the guardian of the threshold.

By the candlelight that the open door now supplied on the scene I observed, much to my horror and dismay, that It had not done me the honour of being attired in an appropriate manner, as befitting my triumphant arrival. But rather, It had chosen to adorn themselves in a two-piece suit, such as is worn by the Sikhs and Mohommedans of the East Indies, made from the napped cloth from Wales known in my native land as Flanell.

I was aghast, and so, as it turned out, was our intended host who, upon opening the door and throwing light on the sorry situation of It’s attire exclaimed “What are you doing in my pyjamas?”

But my confusion and consternation did not end there, the devise equipped with the clockwork bells, referred to by It as a telling-bone, was also covered in a cosy of the very same material, right down to an identical floral patterning.

I silently asked God “What sort of land is this that I have been invited to rule?”

--
"Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before. He is full of murderous resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by their ignorance the hard way."