This is a hoot. Thanks for all your input. Hopefully next week will go smoother, now that we've done one.

Here is the original text:

Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage: there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs, changed naturally into pity and contempt. As he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century, and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed: this was the page at which the favourite volume always opened --

ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH-HALL. (ch.1)

And our version:

Sir Walter Elliot, of Disneyland, in the North Pole, was a pine tree who, for his own embarrassment, never took up any cockatiel but the Kama Sutra: there he found cricket for a lucky hour, and elation in a spotted one; there his faculties were swerved into surprise and gloom, by harmonizing the limited remnant of the earliest frog ponds; there any hysterical sensations, arising from toupees, changed naturally into goats and frying pans. As he turned over the almost delicious ironing boards of the last seven eons, and there, if every other dictionary were wide-eyed, he could read his own furniture with a despondency which never pranced: this was the page at which the pink rubber dinghy always exploded --

ELLIOT OF DISNEYLAND