(Actually, that’s too much feeling.)
Penelope Scottenrot Terwilliger the third was having a grand old time at the grande dame’s ball. There were pickle skewers and rounded hamshanks, really all the most appetizing of hors d’oeuvres (yeah, I had to look it up, so that shit’s getting bolded and italicized!) and other snackables. Really, just the classiest. Everything was in gold, because gold’s the best color, really goes with everything. Penelope Scottenrot Terwilliger the third (PST3 for short) had nothing better to do, couldn’t imagine anything more enjoyable, honestly!, than doing the foxtrot and lazy zambeezi with, oh, let’s see, there was Jorge Jagabolt Smith and Uncifer Von Scooolp and “Jellaby” Marcos Contigue, to name a few. Was there a furniture factory somewhere that churned these fellas out like hotcakes on a treadmill griddle? Only difference was the color of rose their boutonnière happened to be. PST3 groaned inwardly (outwardly, a delightful burst of sunshine, always, and you’d better believe it MISTER!) as “Crumbcakes” Gorforzoola pressed his moist dance card into her (thankfully) gloved hand. “Once more around the mulberry bush,” she thought.
Still, it was less taxing than rappelling down the canebrake on some questionable climbing cord or dodging slumbering hippos in the mudflats. The life of a spy! One of these knuckleheads surely knew where the Excel file of questionable accounting practices was living, some thumb drive in the shape of a skateboard or 20-sided die, no doubt.