So! Even Dead Yellow Carborundum Lust Is Fine Against It

So! Even Dead Yellow Carborundum Lust Is Fine Against It

Bryan, Justin, Michael, Warren

2nd July, 1994

The constant drip of Johnathon's brain leaking from the small hole in his knee began to annoy Marvin who had a particular phobia of wet knees. This was caused by his great aunt Grizwald kneeling on him when he was a young boy. Her wet, weepy knees were slowly shedding rotund opals and causing many but simple Hitler youths to attack the headquarters of that diabolical hyperbrain, Livid the last (or first), concealed within the iron lung of darkness.

Several minutes elapsed while Rodney tried to work out how the hell he fitted into the plan of things, and then it struck him. Thankfully it only produced a mild concussion in the nearby hamlet. Again and again Anja wailed, as if her only love Patrick could be by her side and his. What could be worse, and do policemen really enjoy that needless waste of breath as they recite ``Hello, hello, what's all this then?'', bending at the knee and touching their whale-lined hats?

It was not impressed with such dreadful toadying and quickly sired ten puppies with immense neurological conditions, jaundice and nappy rash that quickly went out to buy Johnson & Johnson nappies and a quick fix at the psychiatrist's express chain of smokers who died from complications after the cyclotron transplant.

Meanwhile, another author had entered the room. She was not about to let this opportunity go by the lorry parked on the tortoise, and held his hand casually in a disturbing manner. The tortoise left without its hand raised and eyes open. Slowly but surely, it wasn't. Bryan would approve, and he concurred in allowing the mellow sound of Richard's strangulation to die before the sound of Hitler's insidious laughter filled the empty corridors of Mary's mind. Her mind was an odd place to find a deep but shallow grave concealing a vacant body with attached salacious downpipes.

The indian sneeze was created and born, and went immediately to the office of Births, Deaths and Sneezes to register a baby fart, the progeny of Mr and Mrs Bean of the Heinz empire and shoe repair chains which was growing in intensity -- probably the result of too much processed food. As the Beans continued to progen, they and several other hives of enormous killer bees whose only goal was total domination of the planet and complete and utter bullshit, this is nothing but the ravings of a manic-depressive hat stand that doesn't have enough hats to cover the lid of an ordinary yellow taxi with a lurid baby-shit brown, pusy exudent which seeped from his son into the porous wall in which he was cemented.

The only cause of nice fish operas are the ones done while listening to them frying, normally in a garlic butter and with one nostril flared to generate first the right amount of tension in the portrait. He sat quietly for several hours as Garibaldi played with his censer. The cathedral, having been bombed mercilessly by the thonged marauders, stood replete, incomplete, indelete, very un-neat and just plain beat. But since he was a good Catholic and knew beating was a mortal sin, he could never make cakes. Only the powdered ruby nearby allowed his meringues to stand erect and proud in the school's fete.