The fall of the house of snark

If you’ve ever spent years of your life and several gallons of thick, gooey, tepid cafeteria-style India ink in illustrating The Hunting of the Snark, you’ll be keenly aware that words are just a fancy name for pictures that can make sounds. When words gather and roost together overnight, they form large flocks which we call language. These language flocks will then awake in the morning to fly off somewhere else, making a mighty racket whilst pooping on some luckless illustrator’s car parked beneath them.

Smart inksters know, like the Beaver as seen above, that it’s best to attend to every word right from the start by clipping their wings with a judiciously placed pun, before the po’ flighty things take panic and go stark ravin' mad.