Title: If Oinkle Crufts Began Stupidly Farting, Does Not Another?
Authors: Callum, Warren, David, Bryan
Date: Fri Aug  4 11:52:18 1995

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature
was stirring, except for the fifteen billion or so bacteria that were eating
away at Patrick's decaying body. The biggest problem was going to be getting
enough bricks to block up the chimney to stop Santa. Anja, a superb bricklayer,
went to work and used most of her spare kneebraces and massage oil to form a
thick creamy paste which was smeared onto passers-by, causing them to break
out into extremely poor versions of several Rogers and Hammerstein songs.
Could it be that the only way the torture would end would be to turn off the
sewing machine? I don't think so; after all, this wouldn't cause enough deaths.

As the mailman passed with a sendmail.cf file stuck to his head, Anja relaxed
relaxingly.  Her pulsating pulse pounded persistently powerfully plus potently.
Wiping the spittle from his mouth, the author paused to scratch his left-over
crystal goblet with a lightsabre, a distant relative of the samurai
sword. He was reminded of the story's sadly-lacking title, and foreswore to
swear forthwith.

Shivering in his timbers, Long John Crinklebottom, cracked
off at the waist.  The deafening sound of a chainsaw was heard resounding in
the vacuum. Pretty hard without any atmosphere. The place was a dive; it
hadn't been painted in twenty years, and many of the customers had passed on
and were now used to prop up the walls. After ordering another waffle, L.J saw
to it that nobody came near that place again by issuing the foulest stench
his curry-soaked body could produce. Linearly interpolating the surrounding
quadrangle, he realised that he was trapped. If only he had listened to his
fridge that morning; it hadn't exploded just to keep him happy.
He searched
the floor and came up with a pair of tweezers. ``Hmm, will this free me
to fulfill my true career path as a 250 pound hairy baboon.''  No-one was sure
exactly why this was so, but he died with a smile on his face as the packs of
rabid arts students on minibikes mowed him down.

The smell of marijuana hung
out to dry made Anja's nose wrinkle, but fortunately she had an iron nearby.
She found the continual trips down to the hair salon trying, but never more so
than in spring when the mud from the thawing snow was knee deep. A quick
shopping trip could turn into a mud-bath, and make you ignore the birds
that were pecking several old ladies to death. Absurdly, this was enough
time to run back to the car and get the machetti which Prince Charles held
aloft (not unlike another certain implement of similar utilage) and
cried, ``Is this a salami I see before me, its handle UGH!...''
as he slipped over in the
mud and fell into the ditch.

The chauffer tried in vain to make the car 
into a smaller hampster, however the large angry budgy was having none of this,
and angrily attacked the chauffer's hat before completely removing the
still-dead
conjunctives from this sentence. They were later found in Sir Mervyn Moncrieff's
final work, ``My Conjunctives Collection'' which caused much controversy in
many countries and was subsequently banned.  Meanwhile, the chauffeur grabbed
that heavy and controversial tome and hit Patrick over the head with it. 
It was a short walk back to the old shepherd's hut where there would be old
shepherds pie for tea, cooked in an old shepherd's tractor tyre and a leaky
but watertight hat made entirely of squid.

Later that afternoon, the marauding goat herders stumbled across the Oinkle.
Few survived to relate the tragic tale of its vicious attack, and many were so
terrorised by the setting sun they could never speak again leaving only the 
sheep to relate the story, but no one was interested anyway. A loud fart 
rudely broke the
eggs neatly into the frypan and threw away the shells before emptying the 
seawge cart over the donkey.
Over the hill, hidden inside the forest,
was a tree.  Large hairy things were also hidden within the forest. In addition
to these, several other non-descript, rather boring creatures were hidden and
eaten by the now famished trees. Unfortunately for the trees, the large hairy 
things gave them fir balls and they regurgitated all over Ozalp much to his 
regret at not knocking them all over with a bulldozer beforehand.

Suddenly,
and with much laughter, Tarzan swung into the clearing. `Yo mama!' he yelled
as he slammed into a tree.  His insides burst open, spilling fragments of
perl script onto the forest floor below. Small children gathered up the pieces
and then didn't. Later, when Tarzan became the ruthless dictator of the
treetops, the children went hungry, and the population cried out for a hero
and so it was that Dennis, a shy, mild mannered accountant and part-time
hedgehog, was seized upon by the crowds and given the dangerous mission 
of eating the entire universe.  This he set about in an organised fashion,
starting at the outermost realms and spiralling in towards Earth (after all,
he figured he'd need a home base to work from).  He was never seen again. :-)

And so it was that Dennis could return to a hero's welcome, preening his 
spines as he was driven down the main street in an open limo with 
thousands of onlookers cheering insanely and throwing ticker-tape at
high velocities. After he finally got out of the hospital, Dennis decided
never to be a hero again; the parade injuries were too great. He set up 
the rocket launcher and aimed it carefully at the massive purple owl and lit 
the fuse. After the disintegration of the opposite wall had concluded, it was 
decided to give  
Patrick a funeral with full military honours at the busy downtown 
cemetary just opposite the Pizza Hut (TM) during rush hour.
The purple owl
began stupidly farting, causing a sudden onslaught of babies with chronic colic
to attempt to suck everyone and thing in their path.  The 24 gun salute ripped
through the rather weak cloth of the underpants and exploded after mixing 
with the air and drifting into contact with the by now blazing oil well. 

Confused and disoriented, Ozalp helped drag many
of the sick and injured from the fireball so that
Anja could render first aid. She was dismayed at the tragedy, and also at the
lack of decent television programmes these days. In fact, she was considering
turning in her remote control.  Of course, there was always sex, sex and more
sex on `Melrose Place', but she didn't like watching that sort of program. No,
she preferred documentaries by David Attenborough and the odd test pattern.

As the complex pattern of lines and circles in garish colours stayed 
perfectly still to the accompaniment of an unpleasant monotonous beep, an
educated English voice began to explain the mating habits of the inhabitants
which consisted of some very strange actions such as eating each others hats 
and then
farting in the general direction of the sun. This was all a bit silly so the 
educated voice
resigned and went to work for Sale of the Century.
Later that century, a build-up of
methane on the surface of the sun caused it to go supernova, destroying
the nearby hamlet of Westborough. Luckily, someone managed to activate the
spelling checker and restore Westborough to its correct spelling, with 
the `t'.

Nervously, Melinda crept around the old shepherd's cottage 
hidden deep in the forest. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, but
fell asleep on the roof. The shephead arrived back from a hard day's
shepherding to find Melinda going through his cupboards. ``Ere, wot you doin?''
Melinda turned and in her best Mid-day Soapy voice explained that she was 
looking to see where all the crying stupid women were, as there hadn't been 
one in the story for at least 5 minutes.  The shephead realised there was a 
typo in the text and went off to try and find some head to herd, 
found only tails, lost the two-up game and fell over in the gutter. 

Eventually the television would stop showing reruns of F-troop, but until
that fateful day, paleface and redskins both turn chicken. The gutter was sick
off holding back the edges of the road and decided to go inside and watch the
motor racing.  The road had a natural interest in the fast moving cars and 
was cheering for the crash barriers which had to catch one sooner or later.
Sure enough, Patrick (driving a nuclear-powered fridge and omnibus), collided
with the chicken crossing the road, and ended up in the trap. The mangled
wreckage caught fire, and burned merrily and brightly for several minutes.

Hordes of Greenpeace Warriors surrounded the tiny island with fire-extinguishers
at the ready incase the rabid arts students (majoring in French) decided to
blow themselves up. They did. The fire extinguishers were thrown at the arts
students in a bid to help them end their lives faster. They did. The corpses
were left to rot in the tropical sun. They did. Later that year, as Ozalp went
to market with five little piggies, those remaining students decided to 
unzip the forestry commision. They did. And once again, all was
quiet in the little hamlet of Pickleborough, home of all things pickled.

Stuart sipped his shiraz, getting slowly pickled, having just purchased a new
home in the area. His pointy hat was sitting in the corner glowing brightly and
as a coal sack painted black and hiding in a tractor tyre on a dark 
night. Three bling mice made their way slowly around the hedge in search of 
the meaning of bling. It wasn't in the dictionaries they could find, and
there were not many people alive in the world who knew it was an ancient
Pict word for `lurid and senetic'. The mice never did work it out. After many
years, the crufty oinkles tied to their legs stopped farting, and they never
did it again.