26th November, 1991
The wonderful golden light of a spring dawn began to fight off the chill of the still wintery night. Harold_the_not_so_great's eyes watched the intense orb of the sun climb over the horizon, and past the large green spacecraft droppings. His purple hair swept back, he looked a figure of intense contemplation. He recalled his childhood, when he had been continually teased for having such a long name with underscores in it. His attention neuropsych was specially configured for intense contemplation, and he often had trouble reconciling those childhood memories with the knowledge of his true nature. His eyes flashed. Soon someone would say ``replicated phertang nurgle AAAaarrggg!'' as the knife slid through several internal organs that they were not even aware of. Reminding the previous author about making poetry more obvious, the cement banana obligingly split and provided all with a sumptuous dessert. Needlessly a hoard of raving lunatics ran on stage.
The audience moved as one to rush forward and crush them into a bloody pulp, as if to say, ``What is this shining out of your ear?''. Nevertheless the production made escape velocity and left all the sillyness far below. At this time someone thought how odd it was for the stage to fly, and suddenly the whole stage began to free fall and footloose, sliding perigee to aposite postulations of velocipedes in the clouds and beYonderesque the ballet bathes silly in the sea. Salt was rubbed into the previous author's genitals as penance for the last few lines. As the devoted man returned from his trip to Singapore, he -- unregenerately accolading the salt-encrusted member all the while - slowly slid his flight-ticket into next person's slime-filled pocket. Next Person was surprised to find a flight-ticket in his pocket, but not as surprised as he was to find he had a pocket in the first place since fleas don't wear clothes. Next Person ignored this and continued gnawing at the final roast beef sandwich his mother had packed that morning. The wind whistled wildly around him, chilling him to his segmented joints, so he wrapped his coat tightly around him and moved off the cliff and down to the rocky shore below. As the tide moved his bits away to another clime, Robert stood smiling serenely on the cliff, comforted in the knowledge that he had removed his arch enemy Pat from under his feet. Robert thought it odd that he was now standing on thin air. ``That's odd'' he said, and with those words he plummeted to a horrible death.
Meanwhile at the factory of Mumble, Spit & Sons, a large man mumbled, spat, and gave birth to a bouncing 8.5 lb baby boy. Then, on the other side of the galaxy, a joke was being told. ``xztYWv8xn uef(Fhef8efe efh9EFHXVZZbhdi E*F'' Ha ha ha ha ha ha. They all promptly fell asleep for no apparent reason except the empty Clayton's bottle.
Yes, folks, Claytons, the joke without a punch. And so we bid a fond farewell to beautiful Acapulco. Hope you can drown with us again sometime.
Prunella snapped awake. Replacing her head, which had fallen and rolled under the purple elephant, Prunella drank deeply from the cup of sulphuric acid and cream. Prunella's body dissolved and her head once again rolled under the purple elephant. The elephant decided to leave a little left for the next person, so only sucked half of Prunella's rapidly rotting brain out through the nostrils. The elephant's purple trunk started to rot from the acid, and Prunella felt much better after the elephant let go of her unmentionables.
In a quiet and secluded traffic jam nearby, Anja's quantum kneebrace began growing little green pustles and camomile in its hinges. Sadly, this was totally irrelevant since Anja, the kneebrace and its botanic hinges were destroyed by a passing Volvo. The other motorists had finally seen enough of these crazy Volvos and decided to nuke the lot of 'em, that's right, go in there with twin ouzi's blazing, drop a big one and then forget why you ever came here in the first place. What sort of a girl do you think I am, anyway? The sun sank slowly into the ocean, causing huge amounts of steam and the destruction of the planet. Ozalp might have, if it wasn't for the fact that he was blind, if not blind drunk. His sendmail.cf was shot to hell, his libido lay in a paper bag, Cnews had dropped articles all over the floor, /dev/root was full, the line printers had stopped, and /etc/init had died. The world as we know it was going down the /dev/null. Fortunately the next author saved the world, just as it was being flushed down the toilet by a fork-wielding lightweight process. Fighting against the torrent in the lower S-bend, Ozalp gave a yelp and then was swept away before their sullen gazes.
It so surprised the current author when the story magically reappeared, that he leapt up with joy, and sacrificed a pair of ETI-480s to the God of the Three-legged Fuse. ``Oh joy'', he cried, as Ozalp tore off with the remnants, and buried them next to his regular pile of bones, most of whose were Patrick's. ``Get off'', exclaimed Pat, as his tendons were burnt by the still smoking 33 Ohm resistors. Ozalp finished covering the 480's and promptly dropped dead from the poisonous heatsink compound. Pat laughed and laughed until his head fell off. Gerald didn't know that Pat was in fact Stuart disguised as a shiraz-sipping vampire who liked eating pianos and flossing his teeth with the strings. Anja saw Robert sneaking off with several 2N3055s and a heatsink, and kissed his ass goodbye, causing it to buck and dislodge her left kneebrace. Cursing the cheap Jaycar kit, she quickly made a makeshift kneebrace from nearby branches and twigs, which were at the time, unfortunately, taking part in a rather large bush fire.
Suddenly, as the piano came hurtling through the blazing eucalypts, ivories glistening in the heat and strings straining on the bends, Anja made a flying triple back somersault half pike dive from the top of the thundering upright into a billabong full of stdio source code. Rob Pike crawled out from under her with a nasty lump in his popen(). ``She's not even ANSI compliant!''. But as the nasty POXY job control bg()'d towards them, little did they know. This was partly due to a memory fault in the region 0x40000 to 0x41000 and partly because of the lack of any formalised tertiary education system at that time. But even as a glimmer of cognition came to Rob's visage, he was suddenly hit by a large wobbly virus straight out of 0x40F00 and one of Anja's kneebraces, which had been spinning in the air since her death-defying leap from a piano. Rob couldn't help her so she plummetted to her death, not so much defying it as coming face to face with it, holding hands, dancing through a flower-littered meadow, rolling passionately in the grass, down the small slope, and towards a rotating clockwork gingerbread 747 ice-cologne !bang! and they're off on the bend in the river, caused by the rather warped space around this point in the story. Several identically different minutes passed and the clockwork gingerbread 747 was highjacked by a masked Sticky bum and a Jam Donut dressed as Navajo indians that were working for ASIO at the time.
In an similarly different paragraph than the next one, the river was turning into steam as the roadrunner ploughed over the surface. His surprised look at being finally caught by the coyote was only diminished by the fact that neither existed. The rapidly vanishing characters were stunned to learn that the river was flowing back up the hill and into a snail's brain. Confused by this Reality decided to leave all the gum trees to a fiery fate and and the bloated mollusc to fry, thinking link up link down link up link down link up link down link up link dead, all together now, ``Tie me kangaroo down sport, tie me ...'' POCK! The author lay still, bleeding heavily from a pock marked pock.
At the other end of the runway, Ernest was busily preparing for a short flight to Willard when he noticed his pet kaleidescope winging its way slowly towards the centre of the earth. Grabbing a curry pie, he hurled it with all his might, then realised it would have been better to throw the curry pie. He ate it instead and found it was actually a large hungry crocodile, which ate him instead. The crocodile then crawled back into the depths of time and became an amoeba. Meanwhile in another time, a fossilized curry pie was discovered by a hungry crocodile which ate it, hungrily. Archaeology was doomed from that moment even unto this present day. Let's pause and contemplate this for a brief moment. Okay, now on with the story! The gleaming knife rusted as it sank slowly in the vat of acid, and never again took part in the ancient and mystic ritual of EeeOoorGawdBlimey, where young girls yawn crudely and say ``buzz off, ya creep''. There's no accounting for young girls, is there? But the acid's a nice touch - let us pause and background the process. In a far distant foreground the foreplay had been incredibly erotic, More More MORE! Prunella demanded of Patrick, the noise could wake the dead, which was fortunate, since they were extremely confused. Over and over and over the whip fell, and then over and over again. After they had changed ends, the umpires decided to stop play due to bad light. A huge lumpy piano hurtled towards them and fell back up to where it had come from - any English pedants can at this point get conjugated in a self-reflexive pluperfect tense.
And so, we reach the end of this story, which despite the title, had next to nothing to do with voting devotees. But as the sun sets over Hobart, like a vodka jello....
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