Robert Robus has an execrable day

Why, hello, faithful readers! It is I, Robert Robus, here to disseminate once again the splendorous merriment to which you have become accustomed from yours truly. And yet, perversely, I will not provide it you this evening. You see, I, Robert Robus, am decidedly not in a jovial mood.

I've undergone a thoroughly execrable day. This morning, as I was taking a leisurely stroll by the lake near which I reside, I was attacked by a flock of wild turkeys--not exactly a prime kind of event with which to elicit laughter in my readers! And then, something even less funny transpired: then, after rubbing my newly minted wounds with dirt to stanch the bleeding (which, by the way, didn't prove so efficacious a method as my astrologer would have had me believe), a large ox seems to have mistaken me for a clod of dirt: for he soon proceeded to discharge a substance on me which it surely would violate the strictures of decency and decorum to mention. Then, subsequentially (if it is indeed possible that it be the case), something even less amusing soon came to pass: namely, the fabric of my smoking-jacket soon became entangled in a grain thresher and, as I swiftly divested myself of said garment in order that I, Robert Robus, would not end up in a loaf of bread, I fell instead into a freshly deposited mass of hog excrement.

In sum, dear readers, my day was not entertaining in the slightest; nor, do I imagine, has my account of it provoked anything but sobriety and abject solicitude in you, my faithful readers. I surmise I'll have to concoct any further droll capers on another occasion: for nothing whimsical has happened to me all day.