18th July, 1994
It was a bright and sunny day. After a hard morning's work in the fields, Alfred had a heart attack and died from the exertion. He was ploughed under by a careless tractor driver who was distractored. The elderberries were ripe, ready for picking. Olga picked up the basket to begin, and her pleasurable countenance fell into disrepute.
It all began with the great Aardvark adventure the summer before. During those long sunny corridors, many came to know and love Alfred, which was a great experience for all the kiddies that didn't go. Only a weeping swallow was needlessly fortunate in undergoing psychotherapeutic Olympic games with Marcel Marceau. Unfortunately, the live commentary was a bit of a flop, and the pantomime didn't go down well with the attacking German shepard which tore him to shreds.
The ratings gamed 100 points and the producer left for the Bordeaux region of Upper Thrombuckter West where he ran into the first of many sinister coincidences, namely that old retarded granny who couldn't gran her way out of a lawn-bowling club. Notwithstanding, Marcel took the flame of egalitarian sportspersiblingship, tossed it into the aether, and then added half an egg and whisked briskly for 30 minutes. The crowd roared its approval, and Marcel went on to become the most insignificant pastry chef on television. His finer points only got that way because of careful filing with Ozalp.
Poor Ozalp, nobody loved a dog with holes. Only Anja really cared, and she was manacled to Dennis against her will and the floor. She found this rather nice, and encouraged him to put on his spiked ankle bracelets. With an evil grin, he pulled out his third ace in a row and won the trick. He lead an Eight of Hearts which Patrick swallowed, and washed it down with Ozalp and a plucked turkey. His Ace of Spades made Prunella leap up and run far away. What she does with the King of Diamonds is the subject of whispered conjecture around the campfire late at night. Unspeakable things are possible if you put your mind to it and apply enough lubrication and the appropriate amount of force in just the right tendril.
Dennis was amazed. The ruined toothless aged women from another story leaped about, twisting rhythmically to the tune of Andrew Denton yelling at the top of his voice. Suddenly his tummy rumbled ominously, and he remembered the curry he ate all those years ago. ``Hmm'', he mused. It was probably about time to get rid of it. He looked around for a suitable place to start it all over again, but the planet beneath his feet was papier-mache, and the drooling had sogged it.
Inspector Grog was called to a sudden disturbance late one night where a rattling was heard from a dark alley behind the one in front. He never made it. He was mown down from behind by a dim sim with strategically sewn-on pizzas. The secret design of this altogether sinister device was lost as Sir Mervyn Moncrieff, S.L.9, K.P.2, H.2.O, P.O.O sat pondering the enormous smell issuing forth from a nearby crevice. ``Get out of that!'' shrieked Helga when he went to investigate. Unabashed, and farting tumultuously, she grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, pulling him aside, knelt down to have a closer shave. The samurai sword was ideal, but not for removing facial hair. Instead, Old Spice was injected into his jugular.
Tonight was the big night! He readied the shining new potties for the gratuitous abuse sure to happen in the next few hours. Special biddies were being imported from Montenegro, the home of special biddies. An eerie rattling sound was beginning to emanate from the rear of Patrick's decaying body; only so may senseless statements could be taken at any one time, and it was already late. Pat tried to see his great-aunt through the excrement-splashed window, but only a muffled squelching could be detected. The local council decided that no more potty-rattling parties would ever be held again, making the world a safer, more sanitary place for all of us.