Mary Here Felt Gribald's Testicular Disestablishment Device

Mary Here Felt Gribald's Testicular Disestablishment Device

Bryan, Justin, Michael, Warren

2nd July, 1994

Gribald squinted as he looked through the window at the new day. He was pleased to see the sun out again for this day. He folded his handkerchief and vomited due to the Uranium Hexafluoride in his watch. As he was bundled away by a competent nurse, the house was demolished leaving but a cindering smoke curl. The problem here was that Roger needed a head and Anja would not give hers up. Frustrated, he threw himself at the feet of the god of small green lint balls and cried out ``No more furry stuff''. And with this cry he began the most ambitious plan any human could devise to remove furry stuff from peoples' apparel all over the world.

The fur caught in the flywheel, spinning needlessly at the elevator switch. ``Stop, please stop'', Clara yelled. ``I wish to leave and we have already left the building''. Meanwhile in a small coffee shop in Brighton, a young woman was being molested by a hairy three-toed goat. She smiled as the goat used its hairy toes to caress her slowly and with many abrasions. The glee turned sour, as did the milk, glowing wildly from the radioactive cows that migrated to the English plains from the lonely plains of Chernobyl via London West 1.

Samuel began to glow in the manner normally associated with soft alpha ray emissions, and soon learnt that walking in dark alleys was not as frightening as people had lead him to believe. As he explored the seamier side of the city with his seam-detector, no one but an insane author could stop the onslaught of gun-wielding vampires on heat. That's right, and the Zen novel `The Reality of Unreality and Lost Socks' puts it on the other knee, which was fortunate since Prunella's kneebrace was near to hand. But the kneebrace had broken through overuse and was left on the floor while the authors thought of a better device to help the story continue over to the next page. The sodden characters ebgan ot erarraneg themsleves all yb themselves, and have a real problem being anyone else who was attempting to read the small marks on the bottom of the jar.

Gribald re-entered the story. His singular lack of attention to detail was all that mattered. Giving a unique sentence for out of date (or dates) strawberry jam was a real problem that could only be rectified and inverted to direct currents and raisins, but the linguist on hand ignored this since he realised the author couldn't spell. Presently, he suffered ignominy as a Demtel steak knife removed his body from his head. Could gaff tape save him, or was a more appropriate substance, maybe LSD steak, a better option to contain its obsessive-compulsive nature, or just a way of getting out of the wet paper bag that had been left on the road?

Presently they awoke and proceeded tonelessly to his death. Bach's only Requiem for Llama was played to them, and so they killed him because it was particularly bad, hence it was his only requiem recorded in Dolby surround sound with machine-gun-driven noise reduction and sub-atomic granularity controls. This level of sofistication could not be the product of a human mind, especially with such an appalling spelling.

Not to be outdone, Anja gave up her kneebraces for lentels, yes lentels, but these weren't just any lentels, these were related to Jack's beans, but that was another story which was yet to be written or, possibly due to the problems of a broken clock, had been written but not been noticed yet. The note was found in his pocket, washed to oblivion amongst the lint and car-starting breadcrumbs. No only had it upon it the answer to life, the universe, everything and lost socks, but the address to his house when his amnesiac mind did not.