15th June, 1990
It was a lovely sunny black hole through which a quirk of a wormhole meandered lazily, bubbling and gurgling like a coffee percolator. Alex wondered if the sun had set, or had he gone blind? No, he could still see the distant fuzz of the foggy thoughts of the urinary sampler. In the murky depths of the desert, the wind was blasting away at the poor eyeball, bulging greenly.
Wang! Wang! went the phone; he went to answer it when it stopped. That really made him annoyed - there was nothing worse than having a tennis ball shoved down one's throat. And yet, as the plasticene tower melted in the setting sun, Alex finally decided that the Yugoslavian 2nd wife of a nuclear scientist was not looking particularly well, being slightly unalive. Anyway, by now the plasticene had changed into a river of chocolate, which was rapidly congealing into a stinking mass. The percolator shuddered in ecstasy as it was gleefully smashed by an intruding skinhead, who made off on her skateboard down the road, and collided with a large quasar pulsating in the moonlight.
Alex, whose name had been compared to Churchill's (who knows why?), silently trudged on through the chocolate river, which had returned to plasticene due to the nitrogen freezing it. Alex was quite content with that. His refrigerator was nearly empty, and so he ate his own organo-metallic compounds, though the choice was between Mg-Ph and Li-Ph, each being so uniquely phosphoric. The glow of the basketball slowly mingled with the exploding table, and thus the painter kept the file brush strokes erratic and irregular. Alex was entranced by the calligraphy of the sentence; the sentence twirled to show off its lovely curves to the prospective end. It was clear that the vegetarians didn't, so they were arrested on the spot. Poor Spot! His only leg had already disintegrated over a week ago now, with no prospect of its return.
Then suddenly the sentence ended. Very abruptly too. So suddenly, in fact, that. And again. More often. In fact, but as Alex once said, the urinary sampler had once been a meat eater, but really had no way of avoiding its destiny. Its destiny was to die, and die violently. To reach its end it put out several tendrils, each of which was spikey. ``Ouch'' said Arthur, ``it tastes like chocolate'', which was very surprising since it was purely tartaric acid and hence ate the body away.
Out in the swamp, many smelly objects floated dismally in the cosmic void. Meanwhile back at the farm, Mary-Sue was busy at the vats broiling in the soap and water - she always had a nice hot bath at this time of the season, but too often the froth and bubbles caused her nose to twitch violently. It wriggled and fell off, clanging on the ground, and landing with a rather loud and heavy `Ping!'. That reverberated loudly in the vacuum, which was made of polyurethane and bread. The bread had been baked in the over for the past second, resulting in a black charred blob which stuck to the percolator's toes and congealed into honeyed prawns. The fishhook had been bent over to hide the pair of legs and the Wayman. The fish however, by this time had found himself. Transcendental blobs swam by quietly, causing the seaweed to undulate gently.
In another paragraph, the authors had finally decided to abolish `The Flea' from the realms of student cafeterias, where vegetarianism was rampant. After the outbreak had been put down, Mary-Sue married Alex, and they both jumped off the edge of the ground, sailed past the giant turtle, and found themselves stranded on Betelgeuse without their towels which were in a laundromat in Lyneham.
The urinary sampler was bored. After never being mentioned in this story, it jumped a cliff, and appeared in the obituary column the next morning. The vegemite was found to be crawling slowly up the sides of the bowl. The bowl was put off by this, and ran off to Brazil with the sugar pot. But what could a put-upon authoress do, but to give up in disgust and return to urinary samplers and vegetarianism and toilet training, or should she just scratch around in the attic for a while? It mattered not as the end of the page was nigh, so all the ink ran out and out and out and out and even more ink came out of the pen which by now was running dry and