Purple Mist Grew Yellow Fangs with Age Old

Purple Mist Grew Yellow Fangs with Age Old

Bryan, Callum, Brett, Warren

Fri Aug 4 13:02:59 1995

A heavy gray mist covered the rolling hills leaving the grass and trees dripping with moisture. A few bird calls tried to pierce the mist but failed, Marvin was and so was everyone else. Elephants roamed the rolling hillsides, foraging for fodder, but the mist was so thick they found little to satiate their rabid hunger. The mist was so thick infact, that even the post-people were afraid to blunder around in it. Even Telecom lines-people frequently laid lines in the right place (instead of where they were going to lay them). The lost, hungry fibres that were laid roamed endlessly across the country, searching for a new lease on life. They didn't know that the country had been taken over by Microsoft and was now a division of Windows 95.

When the fibres finally reached the foothills of the village of Znpl, it scared all the vowels into the forest where the phone-emes rang with the sounds of their lamenting (that is until someone picked it up). ``E'', the vowel said, ``it's I for U''. ``I'' said E. ``Yes!'' said A. ``Oh'' said E. ``No U'', said A. Now this could have gone on indefinitly but the whole conversation was picked up by the Marx brothers and taken from Zmpl noeof norgr flinf. Igs nortle ploof bod gonce hag. And once that was taken care fully out into the backyard, the nasty people hit it with sticks and plastic bottles.

The Telecom man arrested them for cruelty to something which wasn't known by the authors, and carted them off to a nearby Macdonalds to suffer a slow death by Big Mac (The Mac-Death, which comes with chips and a free coke). The thing which wasn't known by the authors decided if it really wanted to make it big in the computer industry it would have to acronymise it's name. TTWWKBTA decided there was a certain prestige in not just being another TLA, even if you did sprain your tongue when you tried to pronounce it's name as one word. Stupidly the name was forgotten and passed into history.

Around 1000 years later there was a large number of rusty, ancient computers. The people at that time were using them as construction material for buildings and roadworks. Petroleum had finally run out, and all the vehicles were beer powered. The aged mist swelled up to a full 3.8 parsecs in diameter, and was then sucked into a passing quasar. The rest of the universe continued on unabated. There were little pink ones and blue ones and yellow ones and green ones and orange ones and gold ones,... and and and violent, err violet ones and (at this point the universe took the form of a giant chameleon and began eating passing arts students) aqua ones and ochre ones and puce ones and (as a further aside, it should be noted that Beetlejuice was never the same) lilac ones and great big curly hairs were perfect cover to hide in and await the (mainly oblivious) victims.

Like feeding off IBM middle management, art students were the perfect prey because no-one would notice they were gone. After all, having seen a gaggle of ugly ungulated onions thrown desperately into a melee with outrageous sequins, was not even half as bad as the pathetic (if not puerile) attempt at emulating a down and out drunkard that Anja was performing. She had never been sure if the onions actually had hoofs but it hardly mattered when you were dancing on top of the bar and singing the Yellow Rose of Texas in the nude. Those Gin soaked Mars bars really mixed badly with L.S.D.

Secretly he wished he'd added the acid tab to his collection instead of being so quick to ingest it. The Blue Meanies would have gone well framed alongside the complete `Alice in Wonderland' sheet. He knew now was the ideal time to indulge his secret fantasy of snorting a line of coke, swallowing the rest of the acid, skulling half a bottle of rum and going for a naked ride-on lawn mower. He also went for the whipper-snipper and mulcher but his poor aim meant he received the consolation grass rake. Never before had so many died for so few and for so little. The HRGRC (Human Rights Games Review Committee) sold the rights to Rupert Murdoch, and so the Super LawnMow was born. Several years later, it was old and aged, scruffy, fanged and misty. The general public looked for more exciting entertainment, and found it in a new game where chess was mixed with gelignite, nubile bodies and amphetamines. The LawnMow died, unloved, unwanted, and jaundiced.