Schmidly the Yidly lived in the vincinty of Gibble-Gop Junction near the intersection of Slibbley-Dibbley and Nowhere (proper). It was a noisy intersection and a nosy one to boot. Either that or Schmidly couldn't spell very well. The latter bothering him not at the least, but which is totally irrelevant anyhow, as he couldn't read either. So, there. Now, Jim Jiblet was subleasing a room from Fredy (or was it Schmidly?), beneath the intersection, naturally. He was also seeing Fredy's or Schmidly's gold fish, which he kept to himself. The gold fish not the notion of which. The selfish reprobate. It would be probably best at this point to reveal that Jim was also a fish. Of course, it would have been better to do it before in case you're squeamish. But one cannot really be expected to have done a thing before the notion of doing it came into being. So, there. So, get that thought out of your head you sick, sick boy. Or girl. Or kid. Or to whom it may concern. Or couch, if you happen to be a couch, which is unlikely. But, I want to be inclusive while I'm screaming at you. So, there. In addition to Fredy (was it with two ds or one?) and Jim. Blink twice if you are feeling forced to read this. Oh yea, there was also a reader. Not a particularly good one. Who took little interest in such affairs. And stopped reading right about here.