Presenting the gospel according to Glenn Scott:

• no new media of any sort will be tolerated, old methods are best and should continued to be used whether it be in hobby or sexual enticement of women, men, or any animal be it barnyard or domesticated (note-excessive use of bottom lip in facial countenance can immediately indicate a disapproval).
• radio frequency interference or same channel usage is strictly prohibited whether it be ham radio, model aviation, or cb usage. This rule particularly applies to the model aviation-unless the hobbiest is conducting free-flight operations with an FA tan II rubber motor or Co2 motor in which case a radio frequency would obviously be absent. However, if this should be the case, the airplane must have been built with a sharpened Buddy-knife which are notoriously dull and hard to work with.
• when promoting any hobby or event involving such hobby the only approved sex symbol is a mirandolous gay sex-bot referred to as “Himer” which comes equipped with quick repair tools for damaged hobby instruments in the field. “Himer” can also be used for hand jobs.
• train layouts must be enjoyed with the use of an engineer outfit, the exception being the use of N scale, in which case turtle necks must be worn, however jeans are permitted.

Further amendments will be added at a later date as some are revealing about unreleased sensitive information pertaining to the hobbytown massacre.

“Lunch time!” Tom spoke the words with his usual jovial, personalized dialect, an almost childish, Sean-Conneryesque slur of words, born from heavily saliva lubricated tongue and cheek movement. This was one of a few trademark utterings during the course of a normal day, almost always spoken in light of consolation for whatever hardship or hissy fit his tedious demeanor and short term memory created while painstakingly controlling the details of retail business. “Why dont you go ahead and move those new N scales down a couple of shelves and price them at 4.99.” “Ok,” replied an obedient Dale. Tom still had a hint of irritation as he dragged his left leg along the floor and out of the shop into his nearby waiting truck.

Tom’s return was predictably an hour and a half later in a much better mood that would last at least until 4:00 p.m. He had half a sideways smile while looking at the floor and walking down the aisle back to his office. “What did we have for lunch?” Dale followed close behind Tom, making sure he heard him. “Salad,” Tom replied, as the thought of his recent meal widened his smile a bit further………..

Glenn Scott filled the air with his bottom lip as he shook his head from side to side, his usual appearance when standing behind the slot car counter, sadistically delivering bad news to an enthusiast of the dying hobby. One of Glenn Scott’s head shakes went all the way to his right towards Tom’s office when he heard a loud moan. Out wobbled Tom, cradling his old, swollen belly. He started towards the front counter glancing up at Dale, who was sitting on the counter reading a layout book. Dale noticed Tom approaching and jumped up. Tom saw him as they briefly made eye contact, Tom’s head then slumping back towards the floor. “Suddenly, across my heart, I want you to be my baby.” Rare lyrics to an elevator song droned on in the background. “Lets go ahead and move those N scales down a shelf and price,em at 5.99.” With Dale’s laziness taken care of, Tom could better worry about his pelvis again. He sat on the counter still holding his belly hoping there wasn’t anything internally wrong with his recent operation. Anxiety and annoyance delivered another jolt of pain as Ron from the rival Hobbytown entered the store with his son in mid-sentence discussing their recent break-in where they lost one of the most valuable HO–scale New York Central steam engines ever made. Tom felt enraged as they scoured his display cases for evidence of a possible re-sale. He leaned back as the pain became quite acute. Tom grabbed his belly with both hands, softly moaning over the chincy jazz horns…..Eric looked at Larry then back at Tom’s belly from the back corner of the store, also eve’s dropping on the steam engine fuss. “Dont worry,” said Larry. “There is no way they’ll catch on.” Eric continued to glare at Tom’s belly. “We have to get it out of there. There might be a massive infection.” Larry replied, “You think you have enough money to bribe Doctor Rogers into convincing Tom he needs surgery again and letting you back into the operating room?”

“He owes me a favor from medical school. Besides he still feels guilty for ratting on me about being drunk while working in the ER.” The warm saxophone provided them only a short moment of comfort as they gazed on.

Glenn Scott suddenly hurried by, condemning Larry and Eric with the countenance of a Nazi at a disco party. Eric was too late, grabbing for Glenn Scott’s collar as testimonial words befell eager listeners. GAME OVER, or had it just begun………..

“Well, I saw a ten percent sign in the window right next to that scaled up Peck hangin from the ceiling.” Scott nodded childishly with his top lip tucked under his portruding bottom, seeminly confirming his own statement to himself.

“A peck?” Tom’s smirk widened. He then gave into confusion and the on-coming hissy. Tom leaned back, waited for more from Scott, and Scott delivered. It may as well have been in Pig Latin. He let his glasses fall to his chest right even with his hardened niples sticking out through his tight 70’s golf shirt. His posture was a time frozen, pelvic thrusted master piece. He broke out of himself and sighed as he picked up his pencil.

Tom was bothered but not cooked. He calmed down with a shake of his head and hobbled away on his bad ankle.

You giveth not a dull knife, and carry not one. Blessed be and forgive our enemies, for they not know what they sell.

Deliver us from toys, and forgive those who mix dope and foam. Gaze down upon us with your reading glasses and show us the way.

We are your sheep, and the Earth is your beautiful HO scale train layout, as we are obedient conductors sounding the choo-choo.

Stike down upon those who buy ready-made, for that is no hobby. Your holiness grows with the mystery of your hobby. Blessed builder, reveal to us your hobby, for we not know what it is.

In your hobby we pray, Amen

Today’s word is and ancient one from the Hicko scrolls.

!NAHESDK TI

1. Hint: disheartening acknowledgement of failure by a third party
2. Hint: words uttered by a famous play by play announcer

Welcome, Marshanners! It’s Thursday!!

Here is your word (or words).

Hicko used to bark out this one during one of his most violent and spastic of dance routines…….

OTLTA ICTNOOPR ERLSVERA

Hint 1. Horrible sounding, unnatural scientific occurence.
Hint 2. Bill Murray

How do you like the hobby called Marshann so far? Marshanning began along time ago at a place called Hensley Morsel just south of Bent Armpit, Wyoming. A group of severely lexicdis beardos were bored with there leisure activities of yodeling and scab collecting. One beardo had the spiritual fortitude to write a prayer to the patron saint of hobbies, St. Metzler. This beardos name was Hicko, tap dancer by trade and amatuer scab collector. Hicko began randomnly blurting out abrasive absurdities and strange names during his tap dance routines which were recorded and written down in a book that later became the Hicko dictionary. To this day, the people of Hensley Morsel spend the last Thursday of every month unscrambling words from the sacred text. This activity has become known as Marshann, and has growing popularity in all corners, becoming so commonplace as to call it a hobby………………

Your new words will come every thursday to comply with traditional Marshann values.

This service is free. Please contact your Marshann provider for further questions and concerns.