A Precision Pizza to go, in Togo

The Land of Herrytatlerbonch. Situated far north of the south, over some mountains and back down again, the Land, and it's main city, lie in content confinement. The folk of Herrytatlerbonch, or Singers as they are known, are THE most precise race in the world, literally they have a word for everything. A blue table has a different word to say, a red one, because they are different things. They have no adjectives, because everything that can be described is already precise enough with the actual noun, such is their obsession with precision. Their language is always incomprehensible to us, because there are so many words, most of which are for objects and things we have never even experienced.

Anyway, their main man, called Merrytackleborough V2.04, went out exploring one day, up to the north. He would not DARE go south, because sadly the Singers had waged many wars upon the peoples in their nether, and had put many spaniards in their works throughout the years. The Singers were HATED even, by these people. So Merrytackleborough V2.04 went exploring, and came across a forest and nearly died. It was in a new shape he had never seen before, and he couldn't think of a name for this shape! Now, to us, it's best described as like a pizza slice shape, a triangle section of a circle, so like the edge is round. But pizza wasn't even invented at this time, and Merrytackleborough V2.04, quite understandably, was panicking. Why couldn't he think of a new word? He quickly realised that the phonetic base his whole kingdom (or mainmandom) was built on, had run out of new combinations. Oh NO!!!!!!!! God, he thought, if my people hear about this, what on Earth would they think? I would be ousted, jousted, and generally toasted, for my lack in the hour of need. So he had to think fast. Maybe he could try and use a word nobody had used for a while. No, he thought, somebody will remember it, probably that bloody Gearantrypod in the Office of Fair Wording. He had to go.....south. To ask the neighbours, if they either had a word, or if he could use some of their phonetics, so that he could return victorious as a revolutionary, a pioneer in his daze.
Off he went, with a bottle of rum and a puddle. Sorry, a poodle. He asked the Geantriarchists, just south of the border. They told him to go away. He asked the Artlipiddles, and they said something he didn't understand. He kept going, manically, through the Lirdssss, Munchangos, Livelifelikeapoolers, Broomgrowers and the Welsh. But nobody would help him, because of his forfathers, or more precisely (as this is what the story is about, precision), his four fathers.

So he disappeared travelling the world trying to find somebody somewhere that didn't think the Singers of Herrytatlerbonch were complete and utter barstools, and had a word or two going free.

That's how Herrytatlerbonch lost their Mainman and their phonetic integrity because the Italians hadn't invented Pizza yet.