Since my teens, I have been blathering; and, according to one book reviewer, show no sign of abating. She wrote, and I treasure it, “When Rex Murphy dies, they’ll have to kill his mouth with a stick.”
Nor ever, have I been invited out to that lonely derrick on the edge of the fields where I am told the “oil companies” plot the future of the world and hunt down the last panda with a bullet made from the concentrated bones of the last grey whale.
(That should probably be “Rex tremendum”, shouldn’t it? Because without the “majestatis”, “tremendae” makes no sense.)