2nd July, 1994
It was a dark and slightly weary night. Hubert shifted his rotund mass about the drawing room, draped in a sodden flesh. Whatever it had been was lost, but yet Francis was not disturbed when Robert was hit by the flying bridge. Things were much more disturbed. Anarchy reigned; Anarchy the IV, in fact, but it was his brother Destingy II who really had the brains of the family, and Lechery who had the fun of the apparent season.
Dicky couldn't resist the urge, and had licorice scnapps for his opening salad and butterfly, `Oh My Butterfly', the poem by St James Unga. His poetry was not getting much better, but not worse either since he died a terrible death at the hands of Dr Mangle and his band of twisted mummies. But one of the mummies had an oedipus complex and saved him in the nick of time which had been occupied by a hedgehog.
Sally loved Ozalp, but llamas can bite deeply with loving passion that only a llama could divulge onto its horribly deformed and brutal master of the ancient oriental art of fire grate inhaling. As the master rose to his full terrible height and the green snot dribbling from his inflamed nostrils quivered with the vibrating washboard, Superman knew his time had come. He walked off to borrow a book from the library.
An orangutan gave him a novel. It, however, had a fetish for banana cocktails and so it ate several male bananas until Superman explained to him what it meant. Confused, the orangutan left for Paris in a gas-propelled teapot, but the kettle hadn't boiled before it was filled. Fortunately, the laws of physics did not apply in this case and so the lack of gas was a severe problem. Thelma crashed through the french windows and hit the pavement four stories below! Hat stands are great conversationalists, but even more interesting are that their hats when dipped in mercury leave a bad effect on the large out is the bent several not big and deranged authors needing therapy.
A linguist ws on hand to remedy the condition. Not another bloody condition! The looney on the left was shot by a passing walrus on its way to a tooth convention. It was a convention and not a symposium because the symphony was not available since Domingo had eaten it, and they were waiting for time to move a great big turd out of his festering rectal chamber. The audience applauded this banal feat by blowing huge rasping lips across the room and onto the face of a very unhappy pope or dope, or was it a group of troupes, a bunch for lunch, or merely a frustrated Dr Suess ripoff? No, it was none of these, it was, in fact, and, but, indeed, had the author? had too .... much, to? drink! Who knows?
What have we here, total vocabulary failure? I think, therefore I'm not a vacuum cleaner or a dead moth, or for that matter a recycled monarch who has a penchant for mutilating dead corgis as part of a campaign of endless summer nights spent in a narcissic game of Lego with the only woman whose prowess at Tiddlywinks was matched by her predilection for salted peanuts.
Peter the hatstand was at the moment going through a divorce with his hats; it just wasn't working out and so he was killed by the terrible ancient method of hat stuffing and mercury poisoning. But it was only a story, and the producers quickly wrote a note from his mother so he could appear in the next story. The note was lost in the laundry, and the producer's mother was in fact a prancing artichoke wallowing in self-doubt and insecurity, to stop the insidious document from ever being created and a movie script of Dr Clouseau's rift ever requiring an overture, especially a red one.