(F.F.F. Website Story)
Ffinch was a disordered chap. He’d received a slow cooker as a Christmas gift from his sister the year before and decided to cook this year’s turkey in it. But now his confused state took over as the clock ticked: his sis and her brood would arrive in under an hour. Ffinch whined at the slow cooker, “I wish you would hurry up.”
He was that sort of guy – he’d put his hand in front of his face and see his foot. At the surgery he’d greet the doc, ‘How are you?’
Tell you what, Ffinch would fail his metaphysical.