Quante-who? That be a thing? Aye, aye, quantephobia be a 500 gold doubloon word for fear of swabbies asking questions. Arrr mateys, it be true. Big bad Baba Yaga be afraid of a few weenie questions. But I has me reasons.
When I be only a witchling me mom she sez, “Baba girl, beware of questions. They make witches like us get older. Pretty soon our skin is all wrinkly, we can’t stand up straight, and our teeth start falling out.”
I thought she be feeding me a plateful of bilge so’s I not be asking her anything. Until one day. I flies me soup bowl over to the schoolyard. That day I be late and thar be only one kiddie left. He gives me the stink eye and he opens up his mouth. I is never seen a mouth that big on a kiddie. That mouth it be firing questions at me like they be the cannonballs me dad shoots at Blackbeard and his crew.
Something be happening. Me skin it looks like a prune, me back it bends so far over that me chin sez hello to me knees, and me teeths they waggles back and forth. Son of a son of a sea dog, me mom she be right.
Only one thing be saving me. I sez, “Bowl, heave ho for home, double time.” As soon as we clatters down me chimney, I grabs me a flagon of blue rose tea, drinks it up, and yo ho ho, I be meself again. But that shivers me timbers so much I gets the quantephobia.
Ahoy mateys, we be talking more about they phobias next month. Now I gots to fly. Halloween it be coming at me faster than a speeding soup bowl and thar be a shipload of things to do. I be seizing you later.