Title: Various Sub-Atomic Red  Skin  Bottoms Were Seen Raw
Authors: Warren, Callum, Bryan
Date: Fri Oct  6 18:35:59 1995


Fifty years after the bombing of Hiroshima, the radiation legacy was starting
to show on Rupert Asahi. The lack of hair, protruding eyebrows and green feet
containers, were loudly erupting alpha waves into the surrounding folds of
origami ducks.  Deep in the dark dank dimly lit dungeons of the paper 
castle
, a small tear started to appear. It ripped and ripped, following the
perforations which lay ahead of it. They had been created by that trailblazer,
Rex, the paper-perforator. Rex often worked at the subatomic level but lately
he was getting a little quarky. Strange! His manic depression often sent him
up and down, but his inherent charm helped him get along in life. Rex lived in
a shoebox in the middle of the road. He figured this was very convenient as it
allowed him good access to transport, plus his main hobbies were chasing cars,
carrying chasers, and tasting char. He began to wipe his bottom with a piece
of plutonium, and it began to go cherry-red. ``Ouch'', he thought. ``I think
I need some baby-wipes!''. After running off to the nearest chemist, he felt
an urgent need to urinate. Unable to locate a toilet he relieved 
himself in the nearest bushes which reacted to the dousing of 
radioactive waste and began to mutate into some thing so 
incredibly incredible he irresponsibly irradiated ignominiously, illuminating
iridescently the included incoherents. Increasingly indignant, the incoherents
initiated the insertion of intolerable insects into an inconvenient
idiot who was the last author. Sickened by this abuse of the English language,
the story converted into a mishmash of several other languages. Hey bro, you
axed me what I done got inna sack? Sheeet, da man's gotta nose dese things.
I canny unnastand a word es talkin aboot shouted a mad Scottish King 
who was specially created for the occasion. At this point in our 
story the spelling checker overflowed its stack and deposited 
a large gumby on the nearest author, who was looking under his kilt for
the plans to the castle of Arrgh!, yes, and in so saying this, he was forced to
eat his own words which made the story look quite patchy. His eyes were wild,
His face was flushed, His teeth were white - none missing; His kilt he lifted
by and by, for to do some ... ZZZzziiipppp, crunch, plop. Oh no, our favourite
brand of toothpaste will be inadequate to cover this situation. We'd best find
a new brand... hunt, hunt, search, seek, locate, destroy, er um, not that
vicious.
Our hero, whose name was forgotten long ago, stumbled into an Amazonian
dentist's practice.
Edna the chief tooth remover reached for huge rusty pliers with a cry 
of "Don't worry luv  't won't 'urt a bit", our hero hastily wet his 
pants and
spluttered as he choked on his own saliva, drooling as he was from anticipation
of the excruciating pain. No wonder his pants were wet. Edna looked menacingly
and yet kindly on his suffering, and lovingly put him out of his misery with a
chainsaw. She buried him right there where he passed away, pity it was in the
foyer of the Sydney Opera House. As the divine chorus from the soprano section
shrieked unbearably (much like a Beat Frequency Oscillator), the crowd of
onlookers onlooked. Forty eight minutes passed before unpassing so that it
was as if the event had never occurred. "Sense? What's that?" cried a piece of
string, string, string, string, everybody loves string. Suddenly, and with
plenty of warning, a herd of elephants crashed in through the eastern wing
of the paperbark hut. (Ever seen a herd of elephants try to creep up on
rollerskates? They move faster than if they travelled by snail.) This wasn't
of much use to Anja and Eustace, who were eating some nice dessert for dessert.
``Pass another squashed pygmy'' yelled Eustace through bared teeth. ``I just
can't seem to get a grip on reality at the moment. "James... James.... 
JAMES!!!" Eustace yelled the the photo of Anja, "Hang on Anya was 
here a moment ago..." thought Eustace, things were getting really  
spooky, man. Like, it was movin' the groovin' sluicin' juicin', baby. Hey!
Woo! Oh, dig that cat with his jivin' hat. Strange, Eustace had never known
that he'd had so much rhythm. Things were definitely afoot, which made
his theory about them being knees.  Eustace cast aside the now 
useless knee-brace and jived off into the distance to a Dr Seuss 
Poem. Meanwhile the very confused and definitely un-hip Roger was
abducted by a bunch of hairy Ismalites who ran in from another story.
His blindfold prevented him from seeing anybody, but the percentage of
Japanese accents told him he had been taken to Southport. There, at Bond Uni,
he was definitely lost, Bond Uni was nowhere near Southport. 
Fortunately a Japanese phrase book was to hand and he was able to 
request of a young girl with fluffy Koala attached "Sod off back to 
your own country slant eyes!", he was even more surprised at the 
amount of pain generated by the extraction of a Koala from his 
upper Jurassic period. This altered the course of history beyond recognition
until someone was able to respool all the video tape that was spilling onto
the floor below and get things back on track.  This person was none other than
Grunt McSpool, who had been the major spooler in the history of the world. His
roll of gaff tape was large, and his ingenuity with a sharp knife had caused
massive bleeding attacks to occur all over the streets of the city.  
People thought twice before making fun of McSpool's kilt, what with 
the flamethrower hidden under the cloth. ``Is anything worn under the kilt?''
was not a question you asked McSpool, as he had a tendency to demonstrate.
McSpool's job was to give the country of Scotland a bad name, and he was good
enough to grab by the cheeks and say "coochy coochy coo!" But, this was not a
thing do did to McSpool, as he had a tendency to gnaw your fingers off if they
existed. His sharp teeth could bite through nearly all known substances, and
quite a few unknown substances. This ingenious ability lead him into trouble by
ear, Trouble was built like a brick proverbial and instantly decided 
to pound this careless weakling into a kind of red paste. It wasn't 
actually red, though, it was blue. Sorry about that. Now, as we were saying,
the pounding of the careless weakling continued unabated until the red, sorry,
_blue_ paste became sort of, er, pastey. Well, anyway, enough of that. Bob
bing along the edge of the shore was Patrick's head. He had been decapitated;
well, his body had been, I'm not so sure what his head had been. Pat rolled
onto the beach and, apart from the sand getting into his eyes, he was happy to
be out of the office for a while to enjoy the sunshine and fresh sea breezes.
As he mused musingly, he felt a strong desire to scratch the itch on his nose,
however his lack of arms (or rather, entire body) made this a difficult task
which became pointless when a huge sneeze sent it flying across the 
room to land in Myrtle's soup.  The soup had plenty of body which 
splashed across the room drenching his body and restoring his body
to a full nineteen centimetres high, which it had been after he was shrunken
by the previous encounter with Myrtle's soup. This was getting curioser and
ucriouser and riocriersi, despite the occasional bit errors in the mai1.
Myrtle's soup was quite unique; in fact it was so unique that the author felt
additional adjectives needed to be added to a superlative to indicate the
level of uniqueness to which the soup could claim to have attained. This level
was just above women's underwear and just below Soft furnishings, the 
lift went onwards and upwards reaching new heights within the 
building until it burst out onto the 98th floor and into the soup 
kitchen where haggard old men gathered round to take pictures with the
cameras they'd stolen from the Japanese tourists last week. They took the
rolls of film to a 1 hour development lab where they were eaten by a machine and
recycled as French nuclear war-heads, a new type of confectionary 
designed to appeal to those who find the ordinary war-head sweets to 
tame. One of the haggard old men popped a sweet into his mouth and
smiled. ``Mmm, well it's chewy, sticky, tangy, er um it's icky, yucky eaargh!''
Just then the lolly exploded into hundreds of small pieces.
The sugar crystals rained down upon the small hamlet of Westborough, and
continued to do so until everyone in the town had severe tooth decay. They knew
that the crystals would attract the samurai sword from its hiding place, and
prepared a sacred site to bury it when it appeared. It arrived, disguised as
an American tourist with cholera, dysentry and caries. The near-dead yank could
still send huge numbers of natives deaf however as the standard issue 
floral shirt was loud, no LOUD!!!, and hence no-one heard the clang 
as the samurai sword fell from its hiding place onto the sacred site. 
In the ensuing chaos, the deafness raged about their heads, and fell limp
onto the dirt floor where it was held accountable for several deaths in custody.
Its pointy bits bristled like a toilet brush, which was certainly where this
author's mind had been for the last round of the story. But unfortunately, the
current author had to go off and teach some useless students about recursion,
and so the story was left for the next author to continue.
Goto start