|Feeling a little sick today, Kenobi was. A sore throat and a little fever he had. Concerned about him I was.|
"Worry do not," I told him, "take care of you I will."
A special drink I made for him. A drink I make for myself, it is. Dill pickle vinegar (the liquid that in pickle jars they put) mixed with juiced turnips, pureed womprat liver, and a little hotsauce, it is made of. A glass of that mixture I drink every morning. Add years to your life and keep you regular it will. Very regular. Almost 900 years old I am, but only 750 years old I feel. In fact, that only 700 I look, a lot of people tell me.
To drink this too, I wanted Kenobi. For some reason, a little resistant to it he was. Tackle him to the ground and force feed it to him I had to. A big fight he put up.
"Hold still, Kenobi," I said, "The airplane here comes! The hangar open! Brrrrrrrrrrr. The choo-choo train here comes. Choo-choo! Come on, Kenobi! Take out the enema kit, do not make me!" The trick that did.
Then a fuss he made after fed it to him I had. "Yecccccch!!! For the love of God, cut out my tongue, please! Blechh!"
"Come on, Kenobi, that bad it is not."
"Someone get me one of them steel brushes so I can scrub my mouth out!"
A big baby he is.
The strange thing is, been feeding that to him all day I have, yet feeling any better he is not! Extremely regular he is now, but still the cold symptoms he has. Very puzzling that is. Perhaps more pureed womprat livers I should add. Hmm, yes.