“Botendaddy, our collection of Vinyl LP’s and 45’s is excellent.”
Also spraach die Boten-Daughter, to I, the aged wise Botendaddy, as she played Toccata and Fugue in D Major by Johannnn Sebastian Bach on the delicate Victrola.
We stood in the ancient two-story library of Utonic Manor. A soaring tableau of hoary volumes rose to the ornate ceiling (pronounced sigh-leen).
“Yes, but I just completed my collection of the 1970-72 ‘Man’ series by the wonderful Joy Littell. What I’ve done is nearly impossible from a Biblio-philo-tila-telist standpoint.” I explained to the melancholy Boten-daughter.
“It is utterly unique.” Quod zie Boten-daughter sadly. “Priceless. You are still missing an entire series ‘The Literature of Man’ and all the Teacher editions.”
She thus quoth, while adding an Al Hirt LP to the stack of records (pronounced Wreck-hoard).
“But your Botendaddy site. It just isn’t funny or interesting anymore. Your obsession is leading to madness. Your long freakish white hair is rising wildly from your ancient dome.” She rose with a dramatic sigh.
“The madness is inevitable in our family. It will take us all, and then the once-Great House Utonic will fall into the brackish, lifeless, hideous Utonic Swamp.”
She spake, in a wistful, 19th Century lyrical, tragic way.
She walked slowly and deliberately out into the garden.
The Librarian had been in a quiet, dusty alcove reading a withered, ancient volume of Hume. She adjusted her sexy librarian glasses.
“Your daughter frightens me. Maybe you and I can find one of these private rooms in this hideous mansion, away from the prying eyes of the ghost of Annabel Lee.” She said.
“Ah, Annabel Lee. To hear her name thus Quod… De mortuis nil nisi bonum…” I muttered.
“Can we just f&$k, Yon Botendaddy? I want to give myself to you utterly in every way imaginable. I want you to possess me completely. To claim me, do you understand?” This quod the hot Librarian.
Peace be the Botendaddy