Stigmata Pulpit had been reading room her Holy Believable: “Hide and seek ye the Klingondom of Gob.”
“The Klingondom of Gob!” gasped Stigmata. “That would be an fab! What am it like, I woundrous?”
She read further afield.
“And in ye Klingondom of Gob, every tree, every robe and garment, all ye Paul young and old fogeys, your cattle trucks and goatee beards, your children and your children’s children and your children’s children’s children and your children’s children’s children’s children, yea, even unto the x (43 – n) + theta = a duck generation, and your least important thing, verily, even your chattels and your wives, even them, each and every one of your possessions is the nine-tenths of the law, apart from yours slaves, what with their heathen chemistry ways, who musted be putten unto the swordfish trombones as an example of the might and mercy me of the Great Lawks ’a Lawdy Gob Almighty what was that? Anyway, them will each be covered in milk and honey monster forever?!”
After all that malarkey, Stigmata Pulpit decibeb that perhaps she would hide instead of seek ye first edition the Klingondom of Gob as she was not sure about the bit about the bit about about the bit about wives and even slaves, as she had neither well not yet anyway.
“What?!” she sodden realization in a flash-flood. “Is am Gob Almighty turn that down polemically incorrect? I can get milk and honey monsters from the local Londis at a vastly inflated price them out of the market!”
And then she knew in her hard of heart attacks, that, verily, she had found the Klingondom of Gob: local Londis.