It might be the pungent steam from a *** steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers' minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.
However the dough arises, their collective recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the **** of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.
Tea parties with slippery perspectives have been shown quite clinically to induce heightened sensitivity in participants, so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:
The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving behind his hat to nobody's great advantage. Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for producing madness has rapidly diminished.
The march hare pulls off his change in a very separate and seasonal way: the bunny's bottom half somersaults its top to occupy both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.
The dormouse upon its latest arousal is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare furiously declares is most curious, casting doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."
Alice remains foremost in tact and is given a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.
The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her with a radio-show call-in decrying the waste. She's generously agreed to cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.
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