Was I not invited?
Whore.
Nun.
Whorenun.
Howdy stranger, I was just walking my potato when a rabid elephant developed my intestines through a photo shoot. Just then I realized my disengaging bank-statement was an envelope caught in a washing machine between dinner time and forty pen factories. You see, right about the time my water bottle ran over to the ninety four thousand puppy shoe laces my dignity exploded into a set of cats wearing purple mittens made of dishwashing detergent and a glass of reflection. Since then, an eruption stole nothing except a nuclear book and a dozen interrogations, but I have the better half of what else is left of last Thursday. So if you will, won’t join my cauliflour for the ocean of true destiny. That means if a locamotive transformed yesterday, I have to eliminate all the bus stations in time for the revolution of tomato paste.
Do you understand what I’m going through???
i think it depend on how many jelly beans you can fit in a music tone.
Lol! I can’t compete with that…
But why should you? Fredulation is no mean sqwollyuptiousness, eh? 42.
Yesterday I was at the celebrations 500th anniversary of next week when a tall man, wearing a banana skin instead of a bikini and a pair of doll’s shoes on his head, was complaining that he didn’t like the way giant toads without elaphantine tusks kept
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: Banana is not the same as as Aardvark when the giant moose talks to it.
staring at him and accusing him of beeing the figment of Ian Hislop’s imagination, completely untrue as he was the figment of
Paul Merton’s imagination and he was as proud as a proud man, who’d just given himself an award for beeing proud of his pride,
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: Eat Montag’s Lemonade. Sleep Montag’s Lemonade. Breathe Montag’s Lemonade. But don’t bloody drink it, it’s disgusting!!!
of that fact that he was a figment of Paul Merton’s imagination.
This reminded me of of the incident where a thousand individualists kept repeating that they were all indivdually individual in exactly the same way because “Good” King
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: Are you still reading this rubbish??? You’re as crazy as the person who wrote it, but probably not as good looking.
Wensaslash of Norwegian Hong Kong said at the great speech to the 1976 anual general meeting of the Timbuctu Association of Lemon, Tangerine and Cucumber Manufacturers: "The redder the unicorn, the pinker the circumfrance of France, and let that be a
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: grr arg pet projects are fine for napkins don’t you know.
lesson to all those so called ‘petty borgois helicopter swallowers’ who have a rather disengenouous attitude towards the problem of squirrels who run around claimming to be Karl Marx, and then refuse to give up their seats on tigers for jugglers and acrobats."
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: Don’t you want the time you wastied reading this rubbish this back, well you can if you dial this number: 7
But to get back to the main part of the story, the young 799 year old hippopotomous who was very worried about why “Mad” Frany Frasier wouldn’t want to join the circle of pelicans who were all alergic to their own skin and refused to pay income tax
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: meow
to the Movementarian chapter on the top of the castle in the brain of a hhuuuuggggggggeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee tiger by the name of General Lord Earwig of the mountain balancers society of western province paradise square in the holy city of the praise
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: I’m a biscuit, I’m a biscuit, I’m a biscuit, biscuit, biscuit, I’m a custard cream.
worthy chat show hosts of the Western European variety. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE END . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . or is it? . . . . . YES IT IS ACTUALLY . . . . . .
AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR SPONCERS: Hi, We’re your sponcers.
or is it? . . . . . . YES IT IS, WEREN’T YOU LISTENING? . . . . . . what did you say? . . . . . . OH, FUCK OFF, STOP BEEING BLOODY ARGUMENTATIVE . . . . . . or is it?
Lay down on this here sofa Shade, I think I have the interpretation you seek:
You are plagued by an incontinent, panty-wearing, white seeing-eye-dog named Ted who rips fruity sounding, deeply thunderous farts.
Just listen to the depends. Look! Corn nuts! Help. All better now.
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Is DDR really all they play in hell?