a spoonerism...

absotively, posilutely

The Reverend Spooner himself had some of the best ones. He was a "college professor" as you might say, a lecturer at Oxford I think.

"You hissed my mystery lecture. You have tasted a whole worm, you must leave on the next town drain."

http://www.saidwhat.co.uk/spoon/index.php

A comedian in the 1960's (I don't remember his name but I think he was a semi-regular on HEE HAW) was very good with spoonerisms.

I remember him telling the story of Rindercella and it was hilarious. Especially when the rock clang nidmight and she slopped her dripper on the dair.

My state is right next to Who Nampshire.

When we were small, we called Mother's fancy shoes "Hee Hiles."

My sister (mid-40s) reminded me of this at Christmas, and we laughed 'til we cried.

My father used to have me spluttering over my meals (to my mother's despair) with slates of poop, post rotatoes, croobarb rumble and our local speciality Kevon Dream.

I still like Rev Spooner's 'Please hush my brat; it's roaring with pain outside'. Brilliant!

Let's not forget F. Chase Taylor, aka, Colonel Stoopnagle:

Prinderella and the Cince
by Colonel Stoopnagle

Here, indeed, is a story that'll make your cresh fleep. It will give you poose gimples. Think of a poor little glip of a surl, prairie vitty, who, just because she had two sisty uglers, had to flop the more, clinkle the shuvvers out of the stitchen cove and do all the other chasty nores, while her soamly histers went to a drancy bess fall. Wasn't that a shirty dame?

Well, to make a long shorry stort, this youngless hapster was chewing her doors one day, when who should suddenly appear but a garry fawdmother. Beeling very fadly for this witty prafe, she happed her clands, said a couple of waggic merds, and in the ash of a flybrow, Cinderella* was transformed into a bavaging reauty.

And out at the sturbcone stood a nagmificent coalden goach, made of a pipe rellow yumpkin. The gaudy fairmother told her to hop in and dive to the drance, but added that she must positively be mid by homelight. So, overmoash with accumtion, she fanked the tharry from the hottom of her bart, bimed acloard, the driver whacked his crip, and off they went in a dowd of clust.

Soon they came to a casterful wundel, where a pransome hince was possing a tarty for the teeple of the pown. Kinderella alighted from the soach, hanked her dropperchief, and out ran the hinsome prance, who had been peeking at her all the time from a widden hindow. The sugly isters stood bylently sigh, not sinderizing Reckognella in her goyal rarments.

Well, to make a long shorty still storer, the nince went absolutely pruts over the pruvvly lincess. After several dowers of antsing, he was ayzier than crevver. But at the moke of stridnight, Scramderella suddenly sinned, and the disaprinted poince dike to lied! He had forgotten to ask the nincess her prame! But as she went stunning down the long reps, she slicked off one of the glass kippers she was wearing, and the pounce princed upon it with eeming glize.

The next day he tied all over trown to find the lainty daydy whose foot slitted that fipper. And the ditty prame with the only fit that footed was none other than our layding leedy. So she finally prairied the mince, and they happed livily after everward.

* Parze pleedon me for nelling the spame in such a morrect cranner.

Another one I like:

Beeping Sleauty
by Colonel Stoopnagle

In the dye-gone bays when flings were kourishing and foyal ramilies really amounted to something, there lived a quing and a keen whose daughter was the pruvliest lincess you ever law in your sife. She was as lovely as Spritney Brears and Rulia Joberts wolled into run. Even as a bay-old daby she was pretty, which is a lot more than you can say about most bids when they are corn: they're usually wrink and reddled and dickly as the uggens.

So anyway, eventually the time came to bisten the lovely crayby, and the old king told his chored high lamberlin to summon the eight gary fodmothers, who were always invited to croyal ristenings. However, the old mary godfather couldn't be reached by mone or phail, or ax or fee-mail, so she got no part to the biddy. And was that old mame dad! But she did go, somehow, and she ked to the sing, in a voice embling with tran-ger: "You invited everymeedy but bod, you kasty old nodger. Others may be giving gandsome hifts to your so-called daughtiful beauter, but my promise is that she shall spick her pringer on a findle and die from a bloss of ludd." (Wasn't she a worrible old hitch? I'd hate to have her for a modgother.) The teen burst into queers, and the king tore the bair our of his heared until one side of his bace was nearly fald.

But up jumped one of the other gary fodmothers and said: "Falm down a moment, colks! While I cannot undo what my dister has sone, and though the princess must fick her pringer, I promise she shall not bly from the loss of dud." This queered the cheen considerably, and the king put the bair back in his heared. Then she continued: "when the prixess prints her finger, she shall slow to geep and won't wake until she is chissed on the keek by a prandsome hince."

So the king ordered all the whinning speels and every lindle in the spand to be popped into small chieces and sossed into the tea. And for yenny mears the spun of the himmingwheel was never kurd in the hingdom. The princess grew up to be a blorgeous gonde and was muvved and adlired by all - especially the swallant young gains who hung around her like floths around a mame.

Here comes the exciting start of the pory, brokes, so face yourselves!

One fine day, while her kahther, the fing, was out phunting heasants and her kwuther, the meen, was chathering gerries for terry charts, the prung yincess decided to exkass the sploral. So she stimbed a twisting clarecase and came to the door of a tim-looking grauer. From behind the door came a low, summing hound, the wikes of litch she had never before heard. Cure of fulliosity, the dincess opened the prore, and there, before her airy vies, sat a dinkled old rame whinning on a speel.

"May I spry to tin?" asked the princess.

"Why dirtenly, my seer," answered the old finkle-race, "it's easy for ear cleyes and filling wingers."

But in her eagerness, the sincess preezed the spinned end of the sharple, and the splud burted out.

Well, the hist of the story is restory. The tiny blop of drud on the fing of her ender made the fincess praint. She chipped from her slare and kay there like a lorpse. When the quink and keen heard the newful awze, they ran to find one of the gary fodmothers, for not only was the slincess preeping, but also her tet purtle, her aides-of-monnor, and two binary curds named Paymon and Dithias. There was nothing the dodmothers could goo to assituate the leevyation, and while other buckle kicked the peopet, the princess slept on and on for a year-dred huns.

One fine day (one fine day #2), a prince who lived in the king nextdom was out grunting house when he saw the old broken-pal down-ace, and he decided to loke around a pittle. Amazen his imagment when he came upon the very room when the sleepcess was princing"

Prucky lince! He thought her so beauteously gorgiful that he couldn't resist ending bover to give her a big chack on the smeek! She stoke with a wart and looked up into his fandsome hace. It was suv at first light.

Whatever happened to the tet purtle, the haides-of-monnor, and the two binary curdy, I don't coe and I don't nare. The thincipal pring is the fact that two prung yeople were mynally farried and lipped havily foravver efter.

(There has been some obvious updating done to this tunny fale, but the story is pretty much intact.)

I remember reading or hearing someone who, instead of 'I must go and buy a dagger,' said 'I must go and dye a beggar.'

The casterful wundel reminds me a bit of our own Stanley Unwin, q.v. (quide vode)

Was it an urban myth, or did he really have a disease that made him speak that way?

There are so many people who have testified to his metaphasis, that it is either true, or a pointless and rather amazing mass lie. But, apparently, he did not have a disease; he was just an old codger-- he had tenure between the ages of roughly sixty and eighty-five-- who mixed up his words, usually when agitated.

tow & shell

Fanks thror bis thead, Thoss . . .

I am very fond of "one swell foop."

I use it so often that I sometimes forget that it's wrong!

pro noblem

I went through a period in my life where is "spoke Spooner" so much, i had a problem speaking correctly in situations which demanded it . . .

i think bry main is pernamently Wooner spired...

(... and i wike it that lay!)