The Lives and Deaths of Pillsbort The Paper Baron

A haberdasher coveted my purple feather. It sparkled and fell several fart sounds before the ham exploded. Meanwhile, Skittles Skidmarks, private-eye and Clubber Lang mismanages eggplant gang. Now critters crawled everywhere!! I perpetrated the worst crime that Hitler ever considered. What vegan meat could absorb such glorious beauty? Succulence delivered. Marginal satisfaction isn’t always part chicken.  

“Wow!” exclaimed Skittles Skidmarks, “I’m fascinated beyond carnivorous cravings.”

Elsewhere, thirty seven antelope rolled under the mantle but Skittles Skidmarks contorted unceremoniously. What wizardry stood between scientific mumbo jumbo and a pack of peppermint Apple Jacks. A baby Hitler explains molecular lovers to fifty seven hundred and eighty penguins per second. While Mike Jeffers one-handedly gratified Kris New, Norwegians adopted respect eventually ending years and years upon years of negative campaign ads. Tumultuously shifting James Taylor’s SINGLE word game toward multiple pajamas. Isn’t it slinky? Now yonder stands alone, the nemesis of minutia in spandex. Deep cover has always burdened turquoise turtles. Skidmarks had punctuation problems and chiggers in absentia.

“It burns my twigs and berries,” she declared, laughing at butterflies.

Silence: The De-noisefication. Permeates is a strange word in which to begin a sentence, and furthermore things will work themselves out. Pillsbort the paper baron spotted a funeral clown gestating cotton candy violently.

“Hark!” burped Pillsbort, in need of laxatives, clutching at air. Skittles quickly marches out. Pillsbort explodes, turning red, watery and yelling, “Trains!”

He transformed quickly via compression resistors when Skittles belligerently enough slapped Pillsbort silly. Aghast, never again would Switzerland acquiesce polyethylene swiftly, jeggings from tyrants. Where similar asymmetries vacillate, aardvarks arc, and asymmetrically trickle. Think thoughts throughout thoroughfares, therefore thematically thanking thistlebrush. Poopbutt.

“You’re a f****r, Branden Surigao.”

Against instant gratification, mildew or mildon’t, mind bound in a stream, and the rest #blessed boobies. Rare boobies: A Darwin Tale, on bookshelves now. Anyway, Pillsbort and Skidmarks were racing on atmosphere rocket bikes, when doom approached geese migrating from Atlantis. Astral beaks repeatedly chew their cud guns with gusto. Whilst the haberdasher gorged on a feast of flaxen hair.

“Bummer of a birthmark, Hal,” exclaimed Hal.

Your trichophagia will be digested wrong, but your coulrophobia is triggering my phobophobia. Nonetheless, you guys are terrible at this. Negative Nino entered the room, and shat. She(?) continued reading about albino tires, not knowing that rubber is delicious. Grunting, and straining, Skittles yelled rainbows.

“I can’t fathom Earth smelling without 12-year cave aged macaroni.”

Pillsbort sold many stacks of pilfered putrid pillows, stuffed with red and yellow pills for calming sloths. Side effects: PANIC! And yellowing of the sun. Remember how to fix Nino’s pink and purple dog? Mike Jeffers action figure, just add screams and snores.

“How did Skittles escape my rainbow triangle?” Pillsbort demanded.

Excellent techniques require precision and a dash of rosemary. Spaghetti sauce has usually been lathered over appendages, schools, and brick walls.

“DUH you monkey!”

In the distance a shadow flame begins gorging on the corpses of light dancers. Perhaps a mob of orcs pray to Trump Fierri.

“Awful friends of powdered pediatricians look for signs that Billie Joe Armstrong has a fingerbang,” cackled Nino.

The infidel hugged b***s. Then he hollered, “B***S!” In constant sorrow, ghosts all through their day lament that none of their shoes bleed properly. They often leave unsatisfying oligarchs’ silhouettes inside a damp litterbox, which hasn’t gotten emptied in months. Reptilian masochists adore this litterbox because it makes people lose their expensive sphincters. Another asshat just finished screaming at a little old lady, who just finished screaming at a huge taxi cab filled with seventeen bucktoothed virgins, who just finished screaming at an Appalachian swing band. Pillsbort fell in love with the trombonist asshat.

Suspicion of arson shrouded fortune cookie bias which clouded fortune wookiee triads. The fortune wookiee triads were in charge of voodoo BBQ. They had mixed results. The ribs jeepers, a special recipe, was handed down from the ancient ones and zeroes. In other news, Clubber Lang and The Eggplant Gang formed an LLC regarding patents and cotton candy. Funyuns are also included. Clubber Lang and The Eggplant gang got picked last because their project lacked Funyuns. Basic grammar is ignored on Fridays, bring injustice today. Pillsbort sang a hymn in honor of THE GLORIOUS DEAD!

“Oh sweet cadavers, thou art rotting away in fashionable hats, praise be to the haberdasher!”

 {second verse}

 “For art thou fashionably smelly now and forever. Amen.”

Slot machines dance to hurricane funk, while vivid glimpses of grasshoppers fade and reappear like neuroelectric ghosts. We musn’t prevaricate or mislead the participants of the Republican Party, in fact we love these honkies as is. However, dorsal fins don’t belong to any one party, furthermore brandishing any tittybutts or scallions would be tantamount to our plans. Several of Skittles’ bottles will make fine additions to the department of East Dakota Fish House Department of Education and fishery.

 “Thought you knew bout them,” said Pillsbort.

To Jim’s surprise, a big ole banana laid waste to Graceland. Here comes the peanut butter brigade on a mission to save the Jelly Queen from the vicious cycle of wonder bread poverty.

“Here, here, I’m just glad to be back,” said the Jelly Queen. “Give me some butter sugar buns,” she declared.

Shortly after the devastation, Skittles and the haberdasher danced above hatred rejuvenating their sense of timing. If you look to your left, cats have sprung into black holes with magic strings connecting all realities known and unknown to the never ending expanse of cats. And to your right you’ll see dogs licking their genitals. Lions, don’t hum that we go back in special moonlit it’s I’m enough. That was a stroke.

“Try again,” said the paper baron.

Stop lights turn off women when they need green speed pills to overcome the difficulty in ovulation. Conundrums put stress within the framework of eyeball giants.

Twas a delightful smorgasbord with hagfish and pony meat. Water beans, and gazpacho zapped the almighty lizard king above the rim of the canyon. Lizards never dance twice normally so they package dance kits in pouches to keep em entertaining. The kits include: clogs, spandex underpants, and turntables.

If a Lego gets jammed hard (J-Hard) folks be like “Yo, waffles smell burnt but feel wet, gaseous elements oozed willingly like maple syrup.” Damages include turf toe, rabies, restless legs, corn dogs, and nip slips. Shots apparently fired! Pies seek friendship where hobos gather nickels left of the turnpike. Pillsbort ponders parables partially putting propellers properly positioned patriotically partitioned perpetually palpitating. Thanks be undone to Skidmarks, for his degree of watchfulness appears slovenly and chaotic. The forecast never being good, baffles the cyclists who always hover out of sight.

Roads stretch on creating beautiful droplets of unique attractions, like: the world’s flattest mountain, the nation’s crustiest iceberg, and Doolsby the three-eared fish.

Doolsby is unaware of the rumpin’ stumpin’ pumpkin over yonder. It only distracts Skittles from the obvious conundrum of Bulgarian sweater pants or cavity searches. Both are illegal under Alabama law, unless preceded by paranoid delusions of tittybutts. Clicking keyboards, sandy salt taffy, and chrome trombone in hand, the asshats take every opportunity to swing votes clockwise fully 360 degrees.

“Boo! B*****s! Boo!” Skittles yelled. “Don’t forget to yell into the void.”

Doolsby hates himself.

“Fish ain’t nothin’ without Trey Anastasio and buttery, crunchy delicious grooves!” Doolsby declared.

Doolsby’s chess masters invaded Chantilly’s underpants. With great strategy, the pieces came more aggressively when Doolsby sacrificed the loadstone with great perversion, shocking fish worldwide. In case the boss discovers and continues my secret, I pledge to always milk his cats and llamas. Cat milk when whipped can be spread over dog’s hind quarters and used as a currency in northern parts of Iran. I ran away when I ran away from Iran!!!

Anyway, beware of statistics about demographics and analytics, but recently multipliers went haywire. Pillsbort and the funeral clown skipped tea time in order to spy on Doolsby. Rumor has it Doolsby was seen swimming near nuclear surf shops, sporting Speedo gear, and looking to grind in exchange for poppers. John Popper vanished coincidentally around the same time Skittles’ babyface wrinkled time and space.

When the trombone sputters, and the garbage can flutters that hurricane funk, the villagers get loose and introduce a mighty lollapalooza megaclone party. Chances are those megaclones play hurricane funk with chrome trombones and brappity pow thunk. Doolsby needed more ears, so he called Skittles’ cousin, a renowned ear monger, from East Dakota. Her name was Dexter Fartworthy. Dexter could fart all day until she accidentally sat cross-legged on an anti-vaccinator.

“Oh crikey!” Dexter farted.

Doolsby decided quickly to exchange glitter with the fart doctor, for repairs to his existing ears. Clicks and beepers discouraged normal speech patterns in parrots. We now turn to Spoolsby, the forgotten fifth son of Doolsby and creator of the hit space comedy “Dexter and The Fartnuggets.” Spoolsy…as he likes to be called, lost a fortune investing in digital pizza. Now he runs tricks down on Main Street and 1^st.

The history of Bob Seger is filled with hair, denim, sea-men, wax, and old pirate ships. Spoolsy’s duet with Seger was heartbreaking because it brought back memories of pirates who danced for fish-sticks. They were just preparing some long overdue snacks, when suddenly mudbutt. It’s nothing short of a catastrophe when mudbutt strikes. The very foundation shakes, even the sturdiest of foundations.

Make-up artists in peril seek Dexter Fartworthy and her expertise. Confused she blurted, “B*****S I CAN FIX MY OWN EVENT! FART!” Pillsbort joined a coalition hellbent on painting a grandiose milkman mural with vibrant chaps and glow sticks. Sporty Spice was not there. Lactose legions loitered longer for a look, but languished in line. Dexter walked up to the legionnaires and said, “Witness these fists!” and they bowed. Dexter laughed, and proceeded to move attack barnacles with an armor class of 15, and +1 bonus to acidic latch, the barnacle’s dried up sister, onto the marquee.

“THESE BARNACLES ARE DUSTIER THAN KURT RUSSEL’S THIGH-BURNS!” She cackled, laughing while preparing Cinnamon Toast Crunch biscuits.

A gobsmacked heartthrob walked in, knee deep in mothballs, and playing the kazoo. His name was Scott. Dance parties in double ‘em up trucks find cute kittens and pet them ironically, scratching is forbidden in Pillsbort’s garage. Meanwhile, Skittles practices curling whilst eating Beamz of Cheeze.

“These cretins keep touching finger foods without fingers.”

On a whistle stop tour, Skittles set out to procure skilled architects for his arabesques. At one point a furtive geriatric grumbled, “Cluster weasels always surge through lush pastures, vexing my titters.”

Hurricane funk was blasting, Boddington’s flowing, Wow Jazz (a new exciting form of jazz) was heating up, and nobody was anticipating WOW JAZZ. We’re on high alert and jazzed about WOW JAZZ! WOW-JAZZLERS, fans of WOW JAZZ, were dead. Long live THE GLORIOUS DEAD WOW JAZZLERS! They were entranced, enhanced, and ready to dance, but on the off chance they died, shake snakes in different landscapes. Just because the Earth quakes, doesn’t mean fuzzy lakes will take a stance. Romance Lance took eight diagonal crepes toward eight hundred and eighty-eight raspberry glaciers. He gave up the trombone dutifully, all while feigning medical emergencies.

Erstwhile at the department of education and fishery, friends of the duke of malfeasance sniffed incense in defense of dense rents is an abbreviation for past tense parents. Mount Kilimanjaro is miniscule in comparison to the smell of oxygen. Mount Kilimanjaro grumbles beneath Pillsbort’s zeppelin, but whispers of whiskey barrels echo eternal. Glee Goofy, the retired sailor. Snowplow and his Madam Moth take to the highway in search of Spaghetti-Os. The Spaghetti-Os are underneath Mount Kilimanjaro, in a basket guarded by dreadnaughts of disproportionate Republican foreskins.

The Red Hoods are warm, but violent. Their leader, Golgacock, owns a majority share in Trump Enterprises. It covets kayaks and Madam Moth, but Snowplow prefers dubstep. Blustering mountain winds of golden hues nicely insulate the paths up on stage. Collective intelligence dehydrated into a tailspin of confused biology, is all that thrill Madam Moth these days. Sleep is found only in sections, however moth-mouth never manifests manifestos in a timely stupor. Awakening has put a damper on pampered hampers camping stampers with lampreys. Nonsense schmonsense.

Pillsbort laid out quilts for sale on a catafalque with the body of Elvis Higginbottom inside. Elvis Higginbottom was Pillsbort’s most trusted and smelly nanny. Her death reigns like morning dew over pancakes in the dead heat of August. Where art the art of Paul Arthur? Paul Art smartening up his game trousers, ran roughshod under dripping udders, utterly smothered with beans. Bean udders don’t cry when when when when stuttering muttering clutters bean udders. Close the shutters its cold hard lava.

“Well, that might sting my teets.” Tweeted Elvis Higginbottom, before death.

 Allergic to sweets. Sensitive incomplete sentences are photogenic when allergic to sweets. Just jostle my joystick, Johnson. A good romp in the greenhouse, Doolsby stepped over deviled ham sandwiches purchased by Dexter, who said “HEY BEEFCAKE, KICK OUT THE HAMS!”

Doolsby retorted, “Worry not my love, I shall fart in your honor, and digest beans, and fart again!”  

Dexter Fartworthy brightens, “My kiwi just grew. HELP!”

Tight knights, sharp as ice, price check lice rolling seven-sided dice, but thrice removed, Pillsbort boozed puke. From Arizona weddings to Mississippi beddings, Doolsby knew the guitarist who could shuffle bricks with licks faster awesome than a dog. Spoolsby (aka Spoolsy) no longer a sex worker, like Tom Brady, ventures out yonder to rehash an old script about mustard farming starring Hueby Lewbis and the Newbs.

A rickshaw costs half a leg piece and a can of tripe. Ask Skittles Skidmarks to tell the haberdasher to fix Romance Lance’s pants. Very berry Kool-Aid goes down town on ice sculptures dripping tears of joy onto the streets like rivers of sugar. All in attendance juked and jived until they discovered WOW JAZZ! Tuesday is official WOW JAZZ day EVERYDAY! Freckles on technical assistants fester into flesh buttons. Spoolsy calls for silence. The crowd riots. Thousands of jars filled with jars made of Binks Plast-Glass: America's #1 in Artificial Glass.

“Meesa thinking yousa don’t lika dis,” said Pillsbort.

Flatulence impressions keep Pillsbort sane. Especially wet dog eyes keep terrible secrets.

“Deuces!” cackled Golgacock. “Somebody please shave this horse, and return with a gas specimen!”

Fresh gas extraction requires siphoning birch trees from hell. “With this specimen, gods will atomize rodents’ cells within a fortnight.” Softly Golgacock pranced throughout the back alleys jiggling wizard bells awaiting his connection to connect to a neck. Erect my god. There was a pinnacle severance package delicious enough to reverse the effects of perverse sex.

Doolsby likes WOW JAZZ and Q-Tips combining them southern folks into real scrotums, very real scrotums. Wednesday is official WOW JAZZ DAY. Keep the peace brotha! The forty minstrels served the board of harmonious yoopers. The yoopers thanked all minstrels with gobs and gobs of copper leaf paint. WOW JAZZLERS and the yoopers’ minstrels yooped AND JAZZED furiously, mercilessly, and softly. Lifting Pillsbort’s funk level to Neptune twas a harmonious orgy aside from the seeping WOW JAZZ frenzy! Mormon oxen approach with horns made from special underwear, and cocaine.

 “NICE towels, Spoolsy,” proclaimed Wozzby.

Wozzby was Elvis Higginbottom’s piano player, and favorite son of Doolsby.

“F**k yeah! A yeti’s coming to poop on our carpet!”

Before Wozzby could blink, in came the yeti, wielding a poop targeted at Mars. He aimed with telescope and counted down. Unfortunately the countdown was successful. “That was for our carpet” exclaimed Wozzby. The yeti shrugged and left. Zero rules apply for now! Also bodies ramshackled and ruined madlibs do apply. Editing works for colds and wristwatches, but not feverish Mt. Everest. Hurricanes able and willing been twirlin’ round foolin’ round whippin’ up shacks and shackin’ up shackles abroad. Necrotic oxen toxins and bison ricin stopped NOW. Then, Doolsby found an enchanted garden of screenplays oxen wrote for yappers, rivals of yoopers. The yoopers’ minstrels tumbled and squeamed with delight, wrecking the House of Yappers. “Hahahahhahahahaha!!!” they cried.

Meanwhile, Skittles cooked M&Ms in a moose pelvis. “My M&M stew smells fresh and rotten, perfect.” Cross-pollination of petunia and corpse flower results in a deleterious Ahi tuna steak. Good job shoveling s**t out of that Ukrainian sentence. It proffered a whimsical pair of jeggings. Not leggings, which are poorly welded by the big tentacle loom, disaster of a machine.

Reginald Rone apprehensively got piss-eye fencing Rayvon Ray Vaughan on a floating penguin. The match was obviously lopsided, so Rayvon the Lobe Gunman pierced, the only move a Lobe Gunman has, a patch of tumors Rone strategically placed on his bone. “Golgacock!” Taint’s not inseminating moss again. “Golgacock!” yelled Trump Fieri in a fit of panic. Vindaloo buttered his bald boy afro feverishly pitched.

“Golgacauuuuuuuuugggghhhhhhgggggkkkkkkkk!!!!!” said Stupid, stupidly. “My name is Stupid and I’d like to take felt and pet it really soft like.”

Taint licked Stupid’s felt with cross-eyed bliss, and making fisticuffs gestures toward Fieri, “vindaloo is a curry!” he screamed. Vindaloo is indeed proud and also curry.

Thursday Night Hurricanes, local rivals of the yoopers’ minstrels, were galavanting just outside the ocean bar, bouncing volcanoes like immune goons. Doolsby jewels be Spoolsy’s tools see? Do battle for cattle to rattle take a lickin’ bake a chicken and fart. Drive to Snake River to swim with ancient dweebs that shimmer like gallstones mindless and strange. Bury the accusations Jerry! Bury em deep in your heart for Jibbertits.

Repairs to the psyche needed, Pillsbort, Skittles, Jibbertits, and Jerry are swallowed whole. Steadily it swayed driving away numerous dung beetles and giraffes. Is the man-eating extraordinaire still churning that cauldron of curdled feet? Skittles was waist deep in dank stomach juice, a mixture of cytomegalovirus, colonial shitgum, and bad dreams. In making the movie about megaclones, Skittles exhausted his supply of capitalized churros, which he kept hidden through herniated implants. Lately churro crumbs show up in commercials on the shirts of giant pigmen, roasting twisted Rones# with paprika. Bliss magazine front page story was about two objects: a maudlin oyster and a turgid sturgeon.

Oceanwide copulation produced many spectators agog, Whoopsidoo the humpback whale, Omigosh the orca, and Fuhgitaboutit the porpoise hustle through the grope-fest on a journey to classier discotheques. Reprising lost anthems with friends, they elevate octaves and yips to a level unhead of in this puniverse.

“Puniverse is curry!” cried Taint. Stupid agreed.

Suddenly Fieri dropped the mic but in a dumb way. Fans rushed to their local vegan mechanic who slaughtered a martyr megaclone, in an attempt to hide his spare hangovers. Hangovers can be hidden throughout time by repairing cobblestone carburetors. Doctor gazed longingly into his water dish, and the reflection whispered: Eagles angle to high-G barrel roll and waterboard infants. Disturbing eagles continue to waterboard fetuses and clean rectangles. Monday signifies aching ear lobes caused by 7:00 AM murders. The basilisk has a big furry tumor protruding from its nut satchel.

Pillsbort said “Clowns loathe bare-knuckle basilisks with all their polkadot hearts and then some.”

Skittles said “I’ll be your fondest squiggle poo just for a fortnight.”

The stagecoach takes to the high road to harken another lonely traveler upon a midnight quest. A solitary figure gyrates in the coach, the cause of many clerical errors and wrong turns. Cocoons could not produce enough energy to explain how magnets taste stuff and things. The gyrations sped up as John Popper pushed and tooted and pooted his team of ne’er-do-wells. The hour dwindles to fry blues, but the coach whips and jives endlessly. Umber hulks roll betwixt a trip to mimic a gimmick of a slim hick. Liquid oxygen is slick as it is thick.

Now a new character: Lorenzo “Big Butt Bobblecock” Noreaga from Cincinnati, Ohio also known as Cincinnasty, Nohio. C-Nasty, as he was known in Indiana, but goes by Triple B, aka THUNDER flaps, had trouble cloning cannabis crystals for a “high” school project. MUSICAL gnomes absent mindedly ate WOW JAZZ! Now everyone knows Lorenzo, aka BBB, aka THUNDER flaps, and the MUSICAL gnomes drip talent from their jazz-holes, while chanting “WOWJAZZWOWJAZZWOWJAZZWOWJAZZ!”

Miles away our other heroes are lost in a sideways eyeball farm. This is a place of worship and exploring, maintained by the coalition of ORBS. Which stands for: Organic Rats Brandishing Stiffies. The sideways eyeball farm won a grant from the Soup or Man Foundation. SOMF features agricultural, tiny man clone development, for low income soup kitchens. Tiny man clones vs. Megaclones: mistakes in competitive science.

The grant money was used irresponsibly always crackalacking the bad feels. Crispy Giblets, a new snack for scientists come in 3 flavors: carpet, unicorn blood, and disillusion. Available only at Me-nards for the small price of groveling with prices. Make due, said Skittles. Flip a car or a truck, it’s time to welcome in the clear kids, happy to have them. Distant clothes for distant hoes, sponsored by conquered sky.

[studio applause]

Swimmer James and his push-ups are exploding onto diner counters drenched in mayonnaise. Pay attention kids, demanded Romance Lance, slamming his fist into a bag of charred char. Friday afternoon is official for the wow jazz days, except rust can’t dance on coated iron statues of lifestyle magazines. Darjeeling raiders captured curry fried encyclopedias that held all the world’s saboteurs grandmothers maiden names. Shinto and Juju fennel spread makes a bagel worse than the best funnel pile of hardcore sauce. Muscular Shih Tzus wearing chains are forced to pull Dick Cheney around shantytowns. But rebellion to spread rumor within the ranks of the underground leads to Shih Tzu warfare.

Dick Cheney tightened his grip on the Shih Tzu ambassador and screamed “Goddamn little screw pups!” His mechanical heart burst into flames, releasing Shih Tzu farts, orcs and bile worms.

Caliginosity becomes rotten with sugar and unnecessary commas. Memories incomplete sentence. 4,125 incomplete sentences. Twenty-five of them are completely sexy the rest are just run-on sentences now we will make a comment casserole castle costing around about midnight. Hold your wheel straight or let it turn away slowly, and drift toward the rift, but if you want to drop off the flat earth remain an idiot. The eggplant gang keeps time on their timbales while undeniable blacksmiths and the mayor of mayonnaise wipe breadstock containing parasitic diamonds (sparkle). Dick “Veiny” Cheney feeds the hellmouth pornographic continuum involving soulless re-gifters and sycophants. Paranormal wagon wheels frolic through restricted cesspools bubbling bubbly.

Yeah! Pillsbort is furious. Doolsby is relentless. Skittles doesn’t surf. The entire WOW JAZZLERS ensemble were trying yoga pants outside the temple of IMBranden# when suddenly a swarm of Brandens descended from their beard-nest in Valhalla, IN.

“You are not Branden!” they cried. Their gills flapped, their limbs limp and ashy as they flailed to and fro.

Skittles whipped out a whip to whip up an alibi for an albino alligator atrociously ferocious. “This alligator died twenty-two thousand miles from Graceland without ever pronouncing it as ‘Grazeland’!”

[hushed audience sounds]

The Brandens cackle miserable songs as the red sun cools the fire inside men’s hearts. Tilted vegans wash meat in blood. Drains get clogged with clumps of gluten-free muttonberries and sugarless scumdrops, attracting the X flies clone swarm. The WOW JAZZLERS were dabbling with raven spells those ne’er-do-wells, in brown bags full of rags, in darkened crags. Nothing pops bubble wrap quite like a hand grenade.

Great white peacocks produce punk albums reminiscent of thread and blue cheese. We harness the light hooks of weeping whale’s tender but it is cautionary at best, or else why? Doolsby knew James Joyce was a skin graft of a man, trangol eateries aside. Posh Spice was hunted cuz she grassed some park in New Jersey full of sandworms, and after that the park was put in jail. Puppies pictured on a package of pretzels is plagiarism in Pennsylvania. Word play is better in humid weather.

Behold the crumbling infrastructure of the metropolis of the moon of Antarus 3. Pillsbort’s son, Billsport, was supreme chancellor until a coup forced him to flee inside of the stomach of an endangered Maldivian businessman who looked just like a Branden. Curry protection couldn’t save Billsport from a life of bland seasoning but he has his recipe book bound with strips of pleather taken from the jungles of Los Angeles.

Meanwhile, Skittles and the Mayor of Mayonnaise’s lunchmeat had gone awry on rye. Butts backed up hard drives to save lives and sharpen knives. Discontent is for anti-perspirant, but relent has spent the rent on bow bent succulents. Glittericia, the land of dull spirituality and matte grey rainbows, supplies are thinning rapidly but cargo ships astray, The Piss Angels, a drunken rollerblade gang, control the upper quadrant near Golgumm, the home of Golgacock. Highest point on planet Urinal, Golgumm is a hub for criminal fro-yo dealers.

The war between vanilla bean and cookies and cream raged on, but Dracula distraught with orange sherbert grief punished the warlords for crimes against waffle cones. Peace crickets flourished immensely throughout Golgumm, smearing chocolate treaties inside every lymph node, bus station, and golf course. City hall explains to the Piss Angels that fro-yo has gone legit, Peace crickets corral snakes, and turn signals with blue lights eat cupcakes. Preservation of historical leaf-wipers costs one-half ballon and two dunch coins.

“Open poppyseed whiskey bottles in case monkeys get fed mushroom paper acid tabs,” decried The Piss Angels.

“Glittericia is doomed!” said the Comma Police.

The Piss Angels decimated neon signs with piss. The Comma Police owned neon mines and golden combs, but failed SEARCHING for crystal fig trees. Together they planned a heist to nab King Buttertits and his buttery tits.

Somewhere deep within Butter Mountain the peace crickets were planning freezing cubes by up-to-the-minute commentary on Sportsfridge. Wait for more instructions from orbiting orbs around Urinal, Golgacock hums to himself stagnant tunes of sacred divorces and overdue medallions, while plumbers face off in a plunger joust. Strawmen were hungover after oil seeped from glass taps contaminated with snowmagedden!!! Furious sailors aboard gilled ottersauruses wage an assault in honor of Whoopsidoo and to whoopsidaisy the land-loving Dexter Fartsworthy. Her birthday maimed friends with everyone dancing along to Beyonce’s death.

“F**k you!” screamed Jana.

Behind every thigh, Bruno Mars impersonates Dick Tracy. The camera adds eleventeen teens to gross domestic wigwams made with centaur milk filtered by special mercury wings powered by miniscule goliaths in a wooden froth. Long leprechauns electrocute lepers and coffee blargs in conjunction with rice fields. Glittericia overcame gluttony in 12 lunar cyclists’ cyclones synchronizing cyanide the cutest pills swallowed quickly. The Grammar Police suited up while characters from Werner Herzog’s sitcom titled “Nip Slips in the Amazon” showed their big brown fuzz buttons.

“What exactly cackles in my mind like snowfall daisies on telephone wires?” These questions vexed Golgacock whenever his kidneys ached. Forming abstract taxes his brain. McGroop the Slime Dog is here!

Fartworthy and Fartsworthy, identical twins, fought constantly over who loved Beyonce more. They accessorized their outfits so much, antelopes couldn’t celebrate in public anymore. A tower in Golgumm filed complaints against Beyonce due to radiating churros for the antelopes with her light show that emanates banana-rays onto oxen committees. McGroop gnawed on Beyonce’s rotting ears of corn. Ants, ants everywhere. Deactivate the Beyonce references for the love of Chris Martin. No one loves you, Chris Martin. Skittles drove across a rough sea of Beyonce corpses but he never asked for the Beyonce to die.

The next chapter in the continuing debacle of gridlocked light saber arguments would bring about great changes in conventional thinking Beyonces. Ben Frazier is awesome. Ben Frazier is amazing. Ben Frazier is better than Beyonce. Skittles and Ben Frazier teamed up with Satan to defeat Beyonce. Finally, it’s over for Beyonce and yet, yeah, poor goblins, they’re in debt after buying orc stock. Punch drunk Piss Angels pissed off officers of cereal box art by crossing out the cartoon faces with streaming arcs of piss. However, Skittles is on the case. Pooling his resources and firing up his big ol’ ‘zaust-spitter 4x4 tricycle, on the streets he wanders, ponders, and launders with the late Flip Saunders and the rest of the goners.

Fast-forward 6 months and 37 days: the worst puppy has become anxious about school so it puked but recovered with help from Tums. Now the bus must be fumigated thoroughly. The worst puppy belonged to McGroop who adopted him from Satan, cousin of Trump Fieri the pigfaced peckerwood pile of possum poop. Deep musings escalating facetiously counteract blockage involving possum poop. Now I’m off to Jupiter. The end. Or is it? Yes. This is the end. Or am I lying?

 

Chapter 3

 

…begins in 6 days. The Brandens continued being Brandens by Brandening all over the chapter police.

 

Chapter 4

 

…will be now.

 

Chapter 5

 

…the yadda yadda.

 

Chapter 42

 

Pillbort’s revenge was swift and grungy, meaty and stinky. Sponges reveal bunches of raisins raising rays raging bull. Times are peeing green, which flatters magic cats’ whiskers spatulas while sun dried sundries plow hazardous hallways of love. Fatally shot, Woolzby wrote a deathbed letter to Penthouse detailing his junk toasters and how they are chiseled from a single peanut during Passover. As his bodyweight vacation index indicated sunny beaches and a high metabolism, he knew boulders truly were his Achilles heel. Woolzby died horny but defeated. A comeback in the form of a bake sale, the First Annual Sweet Bakes for Fucksakes was held across beachy parking lots outside Atlantic City. “FLACKENRIDGE!” The mating call waiting room house band aide screamed.

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

…was narrated by Morgan L. Jackson.

 

Chapter 43

 

…will be now.

Just consequence hence minced lint hints shin splints cause dental flaws and imprints. France wins a bowl of ants that dance around their pants. Gum is dumb. Sorry for perpetuating China hellbent dolls and liquor dung forward posture pieces. Dumb face bums living fake lives when on the horizon of Haight-Ashbury. Cavern crickets make a ruckus and sing Beyonce to Beyonce. Sirens lushly squandered the King of Golgumm and his a*****e agent xXx squandered. Great Vin Diesel killers killed Vin Diesel. Match makers canker sores Trump Fieri wants play doh. Regrets this grammar, Yoda does.

4000 miles away from death, a pugilist tormented a town of wooden pipes with metal grease and sauntered shuffle bluffs behind Wawa. Freelance resurrectionists resist tofu BUTTS buttressed buttery balconies on oblong shorts. We posted Hostess remains in flames around town. Pillsbort pummeled grass modules in milky pools of fools, drooling acid trips like open minds. The return of words will weave freezing kittens into warm metaphors for boiling puppies. The forensics lizards shocked Ehldward The Invisible so hard, bro.

“Don’t drop the jukebox, put on your gloggles, and stay chewy!’ Shouted Trimpkip the friendly parrot.

Blastball is non-reactionary action and adventure swimming. Craigslist HD survived daycare horseback lessons without pants and parents.

“The secret to living dirty clergy is not just swingin’ shlongs around the cross,” whooped Pastor Bob. Amen. “Find my jockeys upon the tail of a comet circling a giant strawberry.”

Prancrakes at midgenight struggled bugspray pastries throughout Italy, MN. This shall vanquish Branden and Beyonce and beyond. Golgacock shamed Branden for mislabeling his probiotics as suboxone.

“Which prehistoric tomfoolery predetermined terminal velocity wads for consumption?” Queried our hero on his sojourn fart. Bonus points!

Foulmouth frenzy, a game in which grandmothers twirl on table-tops while Pillsbort brews tar tar tea tulips with resilience and a balsamic reduction. Screech pillows won grease fires borrowed from brief wires to eradicate beef tits on men. Cry wolf, but thick snot freezes until a thesis synthesizes sadness from Loch Ness into releases from the yeti crotch. Disdain! Watermelons and chickens will never be one.

Lungs blow gobs, hit song tenticles played “Flashlight” by P-Funk followed by “Space Oddity” by David Bowie and topped it off with slow claps. Muted flowers confuse lions basking among trick magpies. “Sweet Turkish bathtubs I’m balls deep in excite!” cried the top magistrate of Balloon Town.

[balloon emoji].

“All fall sports ball betwixt the white squall of squatch madness must fuss or bust pumpkins inside plus pus. Wheelie crust got dust pop chips bragging ‘bout a buckboard bouncin’ t***y butts,” and then “Behold, Pillsbort, nowadays them chickens don’t even enslave beetles!’ said Pete.

Pete was wanking documents hidden across a fjord recently misjudged as thawed. The documents contained locations that Pete buried inside his brainpile due to circumstances regarding alien contests of weakness. Russian-Africans need arctic booze for pet termites fattened for The Plumpening. Understance underpants your b***h mouth.

[rule violation]

Finally fitted for us, these danglers felt enticing to the touch. These danglers dipped in sriracha tasted like tornadoes ravaging conga lines. Golgacock grew organic peppers in spite of sanctions and spankings. He knew spice controlled the worms and rabbits, but not plain ones, Jerry.

“Hey! Smell Whittaker, stop touching sticky cones for at least half the season sparkles!” chortled Pillsbort.

Fun fishing involves a mantra such as ‘GOODJOBBUDDY’ or maybe ‘GET IT GIRL’ but never bring tarantulas to dinner. Brazil smells of Italians medallions, and furthermore trumps crumpled trumpets get trumped by grumpy humps pumped up by lumps inside boxes of toxic piñatas full of toothpaste. Crest is best. Don’t bogart Humphrey, his insatiable swagger fails when gin makes an appearance. Mario The Kartman flew toward second base, with mushrooms as big as schnozzberries. Termites might fight leprechaun fixated turnstiles doped up beyond the speed of rutabaga ping pong champions. Yams have specific Pacific jams reminiscent of Golden Grahams and old people farts. The groceries disdain with red red rain directly affecting Rod McLain has everyone worried that a plane complained about the snout without cocaine.

Long veiny junkies present rainy songs (a compilation of feelings and arthritic banjo wrists) inspired by pyro-photography and brass tax rowdy sax. Fake aeroplanes tear through Goo Rascal’s mascular contours. Tribal ballerinas pledge sexting must continue or else s**t weasels will act like dicks. Bacterial investigations migrate to ice cream beaches for lactic pterodactyls poop satchels. Ben, Mike, and no one else, except Jeremy and possibly Jimmy, went to JR’s place. But not Branden’s place. That’s where Sater went.

“Frubling” sprechen Lars. Now charge aardvarks jalapenos for favors and out-sourced roody-poo dandy boys. A dandy afternoon of candy cane enemas titillates my n*****s beyond comprehension, Pillsbort admitted.

Jolts of joy caramelize warts under warts into pimples, not unlike LASERBEAMZ *trademark protected* unplugged from SPACEBOATS careening into NOTHINGNESS.

Off the chain, DABOMB.COM will organize nothing unless payment is real.

“Who pooted all the Cheerios on my basket, you whack smack chuckle-swap me!” yelled Smell Whittaker, who was the king of scented silos across from Greedo’s hideout candy store.

SPACEBRAINZ ONSPACETRAINZ# HOLLA SUGGESTIVE SPACETHANGS. Tiny robotic doctors practice SPACESURGERY throughout the galaxy. Wolves, nature’s ASTRONAUTS exploring the entrails of living forests, peruse through Dianetics only wolves understand. ALL CAPS ARE SERIOUS BIZ, BRO. Pillsbort drinks pee to sustain peeing sustainability. Africa exploded. Rob Thomas exploded. It’s just like the ocean under the moon. It’s DEAD! Santana exploded.

“This smooth Mona Lisa” danced all through childbirth without glancing at the manual. Hardees’s chili cheese fries equals positive pregnancy test explosions. Exclusive explosives engineered endoplasmic electrons engaged esoterically erotic.

But suddenly ham. Ham everywhere.

“Good God, look at those salty run-on and incomplete sentences,” exclaimed Golgacock.

Zap, pow, went his ego drooping like Bob’s gargantuan tomato. What? Surprisingly Bob’s tomato drooped even when mom exploded. In space, there are Carlos Santanas and moms who are so smooth. Light cream cheese floats engulfed in resplendent explosions. Tennessee exploded. Nothing magnetizes spiders like EXPLOSIONS. Indefinite a trance, grandma combusted. Scratch Bob’s tomato for cats’ pajamas. Go family reunions! Old people! It’s all fucked now. Starring grandma’s stew goblin Morty Mumbles. Morty rode a tricycle.

Around town, vicious trolls smoked salmon minding everyone’s requests for slow jams. SPARKLEPANTS preferred dumpster CHEEZE wrapped in space hogs. Even without STARPUMPZ Morty Mumbles mumbles but can’t tumble humbly. He’s all fumbles when he mumbles on the train. These quesadillas have complicated my bowels, so please remove them doc, quickly! Morty mumbled. “HEY I’M NOT A DOCTOR, KID”

“I’m a magician!”

Graphite dynamite implodes, funk band disbands, and clones drone endlessly across the void. THE BONETHRONE explosions exposes punctuation issues[it’s my phone] and bad juju. Meanwhile, the smile of Smell Whittaker changed after hot lather slathered his wild bouffant outside the outhouse.

Out and about she, Goo Rascal, shouts “Yousa communist!” However, explosions drown out the sound of her squeaks.

A harbinger of multicolored nightmares haunts stalks of wheat, chanting “Booooo-loney!”

Suddenly, gelatin engulfed powerful testicles at sea, swaying from the crotch of Mark Paul Ryan Gosselaaring. The Eskimo brothers hunt for late night snuggies typically found inside dead desk lamps. The light chokes folks with egg yolks and pokes the spokes in Roanoke. The peddler croaks callously wringing fat through a crumpled bag of Skittles. Shanghai Samantha rows across salty mile flats returning VHS tapes to the alchemist in exchange for raw cobra blood. Penalty kicks must determine the outcome of a tied pie-eating duel. Cherry dumplin’s squished. Smooth silk pajamas caress my regions south of the fourth chakra like a cool Trump p***y grab.

Yikes, exclaimed Pilsbort.

It’s only half of what was only half of double stuffed Oreos. “I no longer eat Oreos,” was heard throughout a Hydrox plant. High stakes and low blows often indirectly affect effected the inhabitants efficiently throughout Michelangelo’s nunchucks lesson screaming and crying.

“WHAT END GAME ASTROTRICKZ SEVENTEENTH INNING FUCKERY SOYLOAF HATH RIDDENED THINE FURUNCL, HENCEFORTH RECKONING SALAD.”

Was Pillsbort dead yet? Only the lonely will phone me from home before daring another dimestore punch-up before Christmas. Pillsbort pooped again and this time HE DIED. His final words were: “endgame.” But all is pretty chill and we pooped with gusto. Still, dead space goats absorbed sterile earth greedily until St Swithins Day.

Pillsbort frantically reanimated revealing a hidden fear of life. Use of his Swiss Army Knife was impossible due to rapid bursts of soft-serve machine guns. Poor poor Pilsbort…cousin of Pillsbort…expert genealogist. Half blind and downtrodden, the slugman slithers toward hope. Never forever a clever head the cubs krubz blubbering early morning nonsense. You’re fine in your splendid Cubs Win life. Great shots spill down towards butts and more sweet juice covered in loose moose goo. She cooed and clawed with vicious texts unaware of dangling chads and mangoes. Faygo rained mainly cherry on and off for years.

The Martians pondered “Why do fools rush in?”

“Because I love Salma Hayek and her big beautiful attitude adjustments. Que caliente!” Strangler Steve, the social worker capitalist with dinosaur breath…

“ROAR!”

Despite smiting fighting bees and slighting Sally, Pillsbort smirked.

“How cute,” said Golgacock with a smirk of Valhalla. Besmirch my peeps, will you?

“Buongiorno!” screamed Screamy while dreaming.

Meanwhile, Pillsbort wondered whether life was just a dream about Faygo, or Fanta, or those little juices that come in plastic barrels. Regardless of moral surgery, Pillsbort fought poorly. All Hallows Eve signifies birth of shaky scruples among chiropractors and canal boat captains. Disappointingly, the codswallop migrated inward and Pillsbort died. The ground was blackened from Pillbort’s snotty poo. Because when you die you poop. A soul disturbed is reincarnated as Pillsbort Hurrah! Nope. Death boners for ALL!

All the citizens cringed from Pillsbort’s lifeless body. He rose then promptly fell. Only to rise again. Then his head exploded. A new head popped from his neck. And immediately shriveled into nothingness. Powerful odor emanated from a crack in the Earth. Within it luminous energy surrounded the citizens of a ghost mall. They felt elated and full of joy. Pillsbort has risen. Bologna tasted like Pillsbort’s bullshit life right down to the marrow barrel cow. Sacrifice rice thrice or roll a troll into pudding. Poundcake doesn’t make sense at all, neither does Pilsbort and Pillsbort. Did these two gods die already? Recycle their lives.

“Nah.”

Oh please just gargle Key Largo, baby…or burgle the turtle squirtle t**d.

Princess ZIZZLEFRATZ pinterests pictures of several Pillsborts!

“S**t, I think he’s dead.” said Princess ZIZZLEFRIZZLE. However, little Pillsborts suddenly DISINTEGRATED. Princess Frankenzizzle was so happy.

“PILLSBORT LIVES AGAIN!” said no one. Except it was really everyone. But really, it was no one. Until Pillsbort was born again, only to live a lonely life filled with sadness and hate. Then he died alone.

Golden geese emerged from over yonder and the yeti burned their fuagra. A parade honored the Brewers Symposium of Pillsbort and his newfound life. Afterlife that is. Because that dude is toast. Kitchen nightmares abound keeps the hyper poop in check mostly. Moistly hoisting Mos Eisley ointments jointly oinking boinking big tents. Tents with jents, who pays the rents, with dollars and cents.

“I’m on the fence.”

Mike Pence is dense. Velvet shelves support hellbent analog dichotomy awards a lobotomy. Crisis at the Boyscout Jamboree. Prices of rent are too damn high-EEEE! Protein would mean more buff hounds in. Zounds mounds abound a likely compound for gravy thieves and pot leaves who believe they receive reprieve from ancient Pillsborts.

“He’s ALIVE!” said Pilsbort.

Now immortal, Pillsbort builds an android out of dead Pilsborts and stolen gravy. Frugal pilgrims rafting through bugles money precisely weave and crunch a central idea or something…else.

“F**k ideas,” exclaimed Stan the Man.

An uprising fart fell on sensitive times. Foiled tuna tastes ripe as sunshine. This “story” lacks anything worthwhile. But it’s almost intoxicating knowing nothing. Will this arthritic condition never metastasize?

“GIGANTIC THUNDERCUNTS!” Starring King Golgacock and his merry band of Pillsborts, the very alive and electric immortal gods. Time malcontents breed phosphorous jelly monsters, which chronophagists fear. Perfunctory peripherals punch sparkles into dust. With ignorant assumptions about dick girls, the hyrax abides. In closing, love affords us all great friendships, like Pillsbort and android Pillsbort. Their clones assassinated no undeserving foes. The Brandens regulated military time. 23:14 is when the story began. The eve of battle grinds furiously against conclusion. But wait “I see someone low in a mound, high on heavenly substances.”

Seven pesos is all it costs to ship most things on Mars. The capital is even possible for amateurs in lederhosen! But butts butt in butting out the buttress buttering buttons. Man, don’t bogart the buttons, butt face. Who buttoned these ballast bell ends all the way up? Find me and I’ll show you my frozen DVD collection. Do dreams have dreams of their own?

Pregnant octopus people continue sharting, regardless of massive cheese consumption. Deadly sharts are a misunderstood sign that aviation mishaps sometimes incite insightful correlations between poopy pants and pandering pops. The FAA deduced that Pilsbort was piloting while poopin’ and issued shrewd measures enacting the strict monitoring of all butt stuff. One word that was two could change an amazing series into uninspired outtakes of pandering for pancakes. Sugar dip in the lip shootin flies in their fly eyes. Pillsbort sizzled hater’s salami and Swiss cantaloupes poster. Frack oil pops melt in your earhole providing you’re providing smooth wept.

“Listen,” he cried, “we shout run-on sentences!” At no one.

I shidded errywhere. Briefly, but I did. Quotation marks make me listen to trap music on my Pono Player. He is Neil Young’s parasitic compass widget. Wash Ponos little flingee majig until it smells like Pillsbort. So many lives have been sluiced by prospecting that ripe baby diapers’ singular noun. Pope Pillsbort XVI procrastinated with dropping truthbombs like a Clintotrumpalump on a Tuesday. Clintotrumpalump is pro-Clintotrumpalump…who is cousins with King Golgacock.

“THE END IS NIGH?” shrugged Mike Jeffers. “You’re messing around with my masterpiece!” Mike shouted. Everyone else frolicked toward oblivion within text based cranberry scones.

“DELICIOUS BISCUITS FROM THUNDERCUNTROPOLIS SURFBOTS!”

Jiminy Pancrickets pondered, “Some otherworldly menace created buttz but forgot tittiez FOR WHY!?!?”

“DO YOU SEEEEEE.”

Meanwhile Pillsbort continued living forever inside Branden’s dinger. Mind.

Enter: Is you is a mistake or is you a missed take? Maybe both? Like Schrodinger’s poor grammar, it exists only if it doesn’t. “MIND THE PERIOD.”

“BLOOD.”

No way Sam just pulled that card. Pillsbort sobbed.

“Poor unborn grammar skillz grammatically influenced effluent effing elves on shelves. Professional wrestling saved the elves from run-on sentences, but not spandex.”

Moose Knuckles, the head elf knew Pillsbort’s only weakness was steroids. Immortality is a fickle b*****d. Pickle faster, we need preserve-earance, spastic dudes choose Viagra over marijuana when they vote. Moose Knuckles ventured between reality and America pining for succulent citrus.

He thought, “This has remarkable abilities, if only lemons could vote. Juice it!” Oranges belong to me, thought Moose Knuckles.

Detergent sprayed like Noose Chuckle, frothy evil twin of Moose Knuckle. Noose & Moose used coupons to buy a radar gun. But Noose kept farmland on Mars fertile by rotating turnips. Get a grip by Aerosmith drove a wedge between the Brandens and Moose and Noose. Eaten alive the Brandens died.

 “Damn.”

A year’s supply of turnips on the anniversary of the Pootenanny, a jazz and poutine event.  It’s a crime to steal gravy from the Pootenanny buffet. But when pushed Noose ain’t about to miss out on platters by god!

“I’ve Pootenannied and written limericks ramshackled with poignant anecdotes today!”

Galloping gorgs garnered gestures gassy and gelatinous. So anyway, my room smells of smoky vinaigrette, seasoned brats. Seasoned poorly. Captain Seasoning is my uncle from a distant dimension.

“Where are my brats?” said the seasoning. “Hey buddy, tell me bout it, kid. Listen, pal, I appreciate that, slick. Furthermore, chum, the rum is in my bum.”

Rum Bum and Boss Sauce tossed the lost episode of Seinfeld, “Jerry Wears A Plumbus.” Turns out magic jerseys, made of back hair trimmings from Norwegian cameramen, are on sale at Wal-Mart. They grant you Danish chippers that explode into gelatinous gonads. Congratulations! Babies forever pooping, pooping forever. Ham of eternal mystery and natural porcine is bliss resistant and that’s fucked. Sperm pain fights off runaway bacteria from infecting optic pimples. Muffin butts. The new album by Preck Hunkston from the band Grits Hits and Sub-t**d-fugue. Time moves over and lets the dead jump the queue. Just because cats, man. Dogs, am I right? Lions, pffft lions. Tigers, fuhgittaboutit! Manbearpig doesn’t exist, according to George W. Bush.

“Oh references…” said Pillsbort. “Would Abraham Lincoln kill me already?”

 He would.

Chop fennel well. Taste me, then GET OUT THE SALT! Kid friendly recipes for adult hating plans, get out my face! Fisticuffs got cufftifisted a good lubing, to peg you in the pubis. Bruising snoozer piece of s**t boozer got a cruiser for Christmas. Had a near miss ever been in a gladiator movie or what? I mean, if you wanna hang with the best you gotta tickle my chest, bruh. BRUUUUUUH! BRRUUURRPPP! Pilsbort, Moose Knuckle and Preck drove the prices down with business savvy. Master entrepreneurs make deals with squealing glee. Nampa, Idaho, home of Jesus K. Christ, esquire, lawyer for Moose Knuckle and Whitney Houston (RIP Whitney).

Windowless and damp, Jesus K.C.’s office smelled of nuggets. Moose Knuckle compared notes written in Crayon (the language not writing utensil), to Dianetics. Befuddled fiddlers, Moose and Noose’s band, took touring seriously, which is why they decided to eat 17 brats. The brats brought love and harmony just in time for their roasting. Mystery roach surprised Moose with roach brats seasoned by misbehavior and Pillsbort. Captain Seasoning, a veteran of the department of THUNDERCUUUUUUUUNTS, braved the wild butt plains. Noose Chuckle was serious about the band but not in Chocolatito’s eyes.

From over yonder an educated idiot rides a pale buffalo and yells “DEATH TO PILLSBORT!” Shots in lots ring out without affect. Impractical, jello shot guns are pretty harmless. “Travel is restricted in the land of jokers Pilsbort.” A crane drummed paradiddles with his beak for the Befuddled Fiddlers to emulate. Preck jolted upright “Huzzah,” he coughed. That brat infused cake! Delicious! Pancakes! Caked with pancakes pretending they are flapjacks. Syrup babies rejoice. Their pancake mix messiah appointed Jesus K. Christ esquire Breakfast Czar of the Martian State. JKC was interloping timelines by mixing Coke and Pepsi and simultaneously flagellating a rare bucket, a KFC bucket made with crystal growth hormones and hair. JKC’s pubic hair.

Pilsbort pilsborted his way into Golgacock’ pocket. He swore to Jesus K. Christ esquire, “Filthy wabbits are Pillsbort’s only weakness.”

Old friends there is a secret, JKCesq knows how to kill Pilsbort. Moose and Noose practice killing correct grammar. But is a conjunction. Butt is a noun. “Thank you,” should have a period. Quotations prompt dialogue not grammatical corrections. Moose and Noose dropped a deuce coupe on Pilsbort. Luckily, it was made of Pilsbort’s one weakness, diaper rash. Finally dead, like really dead, with no chance or regeneration. Golgacock rejoiced, as Pilsbort’s body lay lifeless and irreversibly dead. Finally and totally tubular wowjazz Pillsbort is dead! Legend Pillsbort who is alive, not. The ever immortal Pillsbort, who is alive and powerful no matter what the following text says. The end.

In the beginning God created Pillsbort. And all was terrible. Every good Pilsbort dies in chapter two. Honestly dad, this story kills my boner, could you get the f**k on with it, said Pilsbort’s son. Ashamed, Jesus K. Christ esquire took pity on Pillsbort and his family, despite everyone contributing to this story. Moose and Noose blasted past moving on to the Don of Tron.

“Is Pillsbort alive?”

“That guy owes me $50,” said Pillsbort.

“Tree fiddy,” said Smell Whittaker, “That’s my final countdown, by Europe.”

Forty-yard snail trail leading to gas bakeries ahead! This kiss from a rose on the grey Poupon, the preferred mustard of Whale, two-time Grammy Blubber winner, and cheese spouse of Dr. Dugong, was appearing fortnightly on sandwiches in Budapest. Clouds swirl like toilets on the equator, so not at all. Meanwhile, pallets converge and twirl like clouds. From now on we stand with jump ropes and liquorice sticks while tap dancing on clouds. Henceforth, sea-born gorillas have personal journals that branch out toward temples filled with clouds. In light of denials, the first Monday of virtual touchy-feely week, Tuesday is soft and billowy like pillows.

“So close!” cried Esther. “Too much beeping requires punishment from lemony lime man!”

Drink Mexican soda in court sometime, but spend your afternoon raising alpacas in t-shirts and hiking boots. Lemony Lime Man doesn’t understand milk because it flows all basey with its viscous body. Should you leave without encouragement or mishap, please box out shadows in the paint. Effort isn’t effort until the peeps melt, swirling around like broken promises made by broken parents. Down Drury Lane, the Muffin Man cartwheels defiantly. “In time signatures we crouch patiently mock musicians, all.”

This part gets funky. But that part isn’t chunky or slinky or soupy. It’s beautifully nothing at all. Like a party engulfed in despair. Below Furby kissed the narwhal but got hepatitis C, which inflamed their horns filling them with jazzy-looking syrup that poured sexy fine. Dark techno thumped a thumping rump to dump a stump pump and jumped a plump grump. Let’s be gritty gravy goofing gaily gravity gone gaga.

Splendiferous servitude sweeps sheep dip sticks off the cliffs of Moher in spring time. The worst curse disperses purses to nurses singing terse verses in hearses. Megaloops Tomlinson Junior the proprietor of a propeller gave props to pork chops and chop blocks. Dowgee Puppz, great uncle of Pillsbort The Immortal, hated his nephew with hatred, and began to plot yet another untimely shart segueing into sudden death. Shart shock comes suddenly, and without mercy, shocking Dowgee Puppz within his bowels. Coffee alarm zips frantically outward, buy more stuff.

Black Friday two: the revenge, the slaughter, and the romance. Sequels that star Jones always co-stars with inside Hollywood. Fortune befell Moose as Pillsbort squandered a squadron of squids squirting Doolsby (remember him?). They all lived in a big shoe. A pleasuring remembrance of membranes reveals revolting WOW JAZZLERS from a bygone part of the story. Skittles Skidmarks the cat, her dog, and Skittles Skidmarks the private eye, are back from beyond the endgame.

Skittles yelled, “Get up! Get out! Get down! Get funky! We’ve got work to do!”

Golgacock, ok? Skittles the cat was walking her dog and whistling old Metallica! Hack attack on railroad tracks smacks lumberjacks back a full sack of crack…cocaine that is. Don’t snort, Pillsbort, you’ll throw out beans and snow out charcuterie. Jesus K. Christ esquire swung by and pummeled Skittles the cat with peanut butter M&Ms. Meanwhile Dexter Fartsworthy invented farting and Skittles the cat felt disappointed that she couldn’t eat farts. But Dexter farted nonetheless, trying against hope to eat, to dream, and to make edible farts for Beyonce’s corpse. BeyFarts™ Woah, was a previous joke. Confounded for now, yet determined, Doolsby pushed BeyFarts online but still “Sir-drools-a-lot” had issues maintaining tissues pertaining to mud flaps and big shoes, butt flaps and bad news.

Smacking the Kraken causes dysphoric aggression repression. Retaliation filled Skittles’ rage. She raged ragingly ragged for ragtime jams. Doolsby foolzby evaporated. Know this: what you saw sawed sawdust sawwy! Morrisey cried at the end of Batman and Robin, Batman Forever, and Batman Begins, and Batman Saves Christmas, but not The Notebook, because his heart pooped. Doorbusterz busted doorz as fragile as your mom, pH balance but not sanitary. Pleasure induced doorbusterz were pleasurable without being ribbed by WOW JAZZLERS!

Buster Buttz P.I. (Pleasure Interloper) investigated the entire Phil Collins discography without a jacket (it was not required). Buster rejoiced when pamphlets leaked information exposing Licorice Jones’ bunion debacle which many consider to be inspiring. Thought control? F**k that noise. Foot patrol? Foot thoughts? Pot shots? Hot spots? Hot Shots, Part Deux. Sacre bleu! Buster goo! Old soft shoe! Scatman John sweats. That’s what killed Beyonce on the night of All Scats Eve. Doolsby and Skittles and Pillsbort lurked and nicklebacked and plot hatched eggs of intrigue tambourine.

“If only Wal-Mart were smooth like Target, they’d shimmy all salt shakers up in this here mother love bone.” Sales, Soupy Sales Johnson said.

“To the war rig!” questioned Frisenlarg.

About 25 emails to Frisenlarg, Skittles, and Regis were exfoliating furiously. Pomeaceous dreamed for Pillsbort’s ghost. The juices doorbusted comic sans and Papyrus plants merging mycorrhizal tidbits into tit bits. Doctor Shitnugg shrugged slugs amongst thugs, bugged rugs and dug drugs. Skittles the cat laughed dangerously as Doolsby cavorted dangerously around The Market Square. He dances. He moseys. He prances. He busts down the motherfucking door!

Now doorbusted, Professor Doorbuster scienced cautiously because he feared conclusions. Chinese anglophiles triangulated Bojangles, with angles. Krampus spanked gleefully, thinking of Pampers. Dry heaving, Moose Knuckle monuments tell his tale of skittles, the candy not the cat.

“Once…DICKBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGS!” *ahem* Sorry, once you go back in time everyone is Huey Lewis.”

Havering handkerchiefs hazarded tamales until newsies sing Power of Love. The power of love is a curious thing. Curiosity must be a camel. Camels think its hip to be square. Orthogonal sports demigods queried the first doorbuster over the holidays. This Kwanza, be giving black licorice to Buster Buttz P.I. (Public Intoxicator)/(Pubic Incubator). Perpetually inaccurate, putrid intricacies propagate imbeciles, impregnating Pillsbort’s improbably Presbyterian impish posterior. Onward pressed Pillsbort into immortality once more.

“We must magnify cacti in the name of Jim Morrison’s pet aloe plant.”

Barbara Dennis cooled Coolio’s Cool Whip™, his pet name for his fluffy, white bag of monsterz. Doolsby hired Barbara Dennis to soothe Jesus K. Christ esquire. Unfortunately, she blew corn chowder inside her fingers of fish. Now Doolsby was channeling Kenny Loggins on a highway to the Copa, Copacabana! The Cool Whip tastes like a BRICK IN YO FACE, on fyah! Always be closing. ALWAYS BE OPENING? Rupert?

Gas, “ga ga ga ga gas,” sang Die Meistersinger von Numberg by Wagner off key, of course. And 3 octaves too low. One shartalita (Spanish for a small shart), two shartalita, red red wine. Sweet butterscotch Merlot between pancakes hindered Jesus K. Christ because fists must unlock hearts.

 “Kali ma…kali ma…KALI MA, shakthi deh!” sang Skittles the cat.

Immediately afterwards, she cartwheeled maniacally. Killing makes her eat the hearts, but the livers are planted outside and grow into whiskey trees.

“CLEANSE me you hairy tongued varmint,” bellowed Jesus K. Christ, esquire.

“You’re gross butthole will taste great!” cried Skittles the cat.

The end. The beginning…or is it neither? Now that Sam is gone, it just is. Moments later, the band Befuddled Fiddlers, exploded. Gooey ham rained mustard colored Brandens all over Doolsby. We cried “Branden!”

“Oh hey girl,” said I, Branden.

Tagsturbator Barbara responded, “Sex is when a Branden and a bird and an aloe plant love each other very much and probably sings gently Waylon Jennings.” Barbara was all, “Branden, kiss that freckled toad.” Who turned green?

“Alas,” said Branden.

“Our time is fleeting,” I say we use lubrication outside our pants. That way sliding ferrets don’t dance on our Charlie Browns. What madness betrays scientists, yet intoxicates the Irish? Syphilis? Yes, syphilis. More like spliffilis!

Lord’a’mercy baoyeee!

[Toots and the Maytals fades in from the background]

Deal busterz bust down blunts for Buster Buttz P.I.

[The Toots and the Maytals song stops abruptly with a loud SCRRREATCH! A loud BOOM is heard]

Embarrassed, Buster rolls his eyes. He slowly ignored wisdom, listening only to impulse and freak folk. Impulsively he freaked out and found out a deep secret about gout. The booming sound surrounded and drowned out the hounds of Hell.

Candlebox played the song “You,” which kicked a*s brah. The hounds descended scree to accomplish magnificent killings. True candles burn marking Manfred Mann’s n****e ring and volleyball stains taken without anger, relish chips or blisters. Dawn meadows suddenly eeked from tilting whirligigs suspended alongside laser gerbils. These pieces of snarky programs petered out after prog rams invented skinny jeans for rams. Prague buffets are real lit. Rogue trams fling flim flam grams of flotsam all over jetsam.

“My worthless sac must be worth less than zero…hey! eeyehheh! hey!” Toca Rivera bongoed.

Mister Mister takes over Quaaludes and alludes to rude, crude food " we need food! Shrews cannot withstand any sort of criticism concerning their taming, let’s eat them instead. Recipes expand enormously until Pinterest becomes sentient globs of hand-crafted handlebar moustaches. Omnipresent omnibus spending has Omega Supreme consequences, like oily crack, jaundice, Presbyterians, pools of beet juice, smegma and meconium. Nasty Nate ate a full plate of grapes smothered on great Danes bred for Danes and Janes and Jains. Bread, go to bread. Snarling moths chart a course to Bastardstown. THE WOW JAZZLERS vajazzled Virginia Slims into Vermont. Florida. Delaware. Guam framed Samoa and hung it from a nail on our city-county building’s statue of Morrissey. Weeping felt wrong, but gloriously sexy. Grinning however is naïve.

Doolsby mastered tapes within Cambodian tapeworms gathered by Latin Kings of comedy. And Skittles just pukes up nonsense for treats. Nursery rhymes are heard “said the bird. Dirts from the moon bopped crumpets!” Thistle whistles from afar. Friends acquiesce distribution of periwigs enforce accolades pertaining to soup. Trumpets trumpeted sauce, glossy and viscous, because Alley Bar peanuts won’t fit inside trumpets. Glowing legumes bloom dickbutt shaped orange tentacles tentatively tightening tethers toward Doolsby’s toboggan.

“Make America plook.” pilfered Skittles. “Nowadays nobody loves straight from the gallbladder.”

Taxidermied pangolins go “AYA-AH HEEE, AYA-AH HOOO, AYA-AH HEEE, AYA-AH HA-HA!” Tax evading paralegals parasailing peripherally are punctual to brunch.

Prick Brogiotto, another character that will soon poop, like, ‘splode errrrrrrywhur ‘splosion poop, desensitized errrrrybody’s friggin’ tired to the max.

“Sigh! I fried my wise disguise in lieu of askew drool en espanol. Shucks.” chattered Doolsby. “My bestest friend sharted shark-sized taco trucks all over the national debt.”

“Egads, Edgar! What corporeal wigwams sum up feelings deep inside? Are they sawing bones of the ancients or stymied relics by pride enlarged guides.”

Order the nugglets, an ample cuisine too obscene for chillens. Slang is slung like dung in a bung with potato chips. Little bitty faces with maces smile gap toothed grins while monstrous beetles dither, awaiting combat. Amen!

“I’m not gay, but for you I would smoosh a rhino against another rhino, obviously a euphemism for docking.” spurted Golgacock. Skittles and Pilsbort and Doolsby all gagged a little.

Rub Rudolph for luck and his teeth splinter into snowflakes and thumb tacks. So far Santa’s claws sleep tight but don’t count cockerels before crumpets. Italian Brogliotto’s has become doodoo butter.

“Can you help educate those who ruin our preserves with books,” cried Buster Buttz.

Stolen limericks under certain circumstances enlighten goblins from Jacksonville, Florida. Victory concerts featuring Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers sell out massively throughout flea circuses forever! Limp Bizkit was there, dude. Foghat promoted mermaid fish fries formulated by Boston. Doolsby played sackbut badly since his thumbs sucked major mammoth snot from the depths of the f*****g huge a*s of denial. Sexy-a*s Pillsbort, muttered Golgacock. An improvisation surgery for performance art. Yes, that will amp up these alarming goblin faces. His plan to mutilate Pilsbort and take control of the Earth proceeded accordingly. Envelope licks taste like arsenic when Pillsbort dances the robot to the tune of doesn’t anyone really know what time it is. Does anyone really care?

“Sorry I’ve been galaxies away,” sang Skittles the cat. Everybody needs a little time away, because it’s over, your baby doesn’t love you anymore, you lose. Agreed Doolsby.

The caretaker would leave the lights on and forget about everything. The night evaporated, was good? Skittles and Doolsby return Return of The Jedi late because timezone changes. Skittles paid attention to mammograms with her feline doctor. The x-rays showed noteworthy supernatural abilities. Superteats weren’t’ squirtin’ around. The characteristics of the Superteats, Skittles army of kittens, and sailor undies smells of inky squid children, include a side of paranoia with a purchase of any super sized plumbus.

Skittles took his pregnant cat from the rear window of Doolsby’s apartment and hauled he fat pregnant a*s to the vet, disgusted and ashamed. Hiring mariachi singers causes a problem child with Tourette’s to go ape-s**t with the Velveeta brand cheese food all over aisle 14. Special assignment free tortilla chips.

“This makes me feel myself.” stated Doolsby. Another special assignment called, cartoon putty brain was given to special agents Buster Buttz and Doolsby.

A ballerina commented “sheeeeeeeeeyit,” channeling a drunk Ben Carson. Mister Carson stank of failure, formaldehyde, cotton candy and lost luggage. Appetite mongers are experiencing a false glitch in judgment after failing. Frowning, he walked gingerly across the land fill, pondering his frown upside down, while the rats twiddled his diddle. Simply scientific, these wheels somehow stopped…squashing the meat sweats, finally. Jesus K. Christ esquire was fully dilated.

Sometimes his Tamagochi kitty cat whispered “Kalima…kalima…KALIMA SHAKTI DEI!” The Tamagochi claw ended the story…of Tamagochis.

“Thou shalt demonize demon eyes, fangs, and boogers!” commanded Branden. 

“Behold my son!” proclaimed Brandad.

Chicken skins and safety pins? Disgusting. Have help in times of hapless hankerings in line for hankies. Hank McCoy mistook a fig tree for Xavier a fir tree. Trees are down to party with power lines. Electric boogaloo looks at you with those crude lewd not in a million years eyes. Suffering the fate of prolapsed openings and closings on a cold weekend. It touches a dream of a vision imaging a Martian on Neptune swimming in pools of wishes.

“What can be gleamed apart that hasn’t minutely been heartbroken already?” None of those valves will budge in time to save the crew from hyper-torsion plexing.

 “Mayday! Bring warm socks and all the tacos and seven dwarves and that movie about Ben and Rone!” yelled Pillsbort. Trouble with a capital T follows the crew until the end of the movie.

Roger Ebert lost faith at the movie entitled: Band Hands 3: COLON CONTROL ON LOCK DOWN PLANET. Ebert was wrong, because now that Bad Hands 4: SITUATION SUBTITLE ROOM OF RECTUM was in production, everybody wanted death. Ebert’s head ‘sploded yet again. He remembered pain after feeling Bad Hands 3: COLON CONTROL ON LOCK DOWN PLANET and wished he hadn’t seen Bad Hands 2: ACTIVITY KNOBS IN VIENNA…THIS TIME TWO BROTHERS SISTERS EVADE MOTHERS OF FRIENDS OF FRIENDS…THE SEQUEL! Exhausted, Ebert finally relinquished control of Bad Hands: FIRST BLOODY HATEFEST PROM OF PUBERTY DEFCON 1. These Oscar award winning snuff films allowed us to move on.

Grief City Blues got me a discount on microphones because guitars don’t giggle, kid. A gaggle of tardigrades dive under methane muffins, unfazed, they probably squeezed piglets into punch goblets with preservatives. Winnebagos whine for wine, taxi cabernet, merlo-fidelity, Howard Zinnfandel, and Carrie Ann Moscato. All of a sudden, Syrah Palin and Malbec Hanson fell in love. Marriage is just a great thing! Doolsby wished first for dejected wives and then for swerved petunia sweat dithering husbands. Winnipeg, the destination of nautical weddings, meaningful and trite at the outset, drench but then immediately nothing.

“NOTHING!!!”

Anything and everything, for serpentine poops. A bed foretold the end of mankind. Stand up yonder Poop Smithy, take your turn at life. “Rejoice without juice but appreciate me!” demanded the perpetually drunk father figures of cider supply. SPLAT!

“Papa don’t, and I mean DO NOT, tell ME a useless tidbit about foreskin.”

Foreskin is a punk band. Their #1 hit called ‘I Bris Shocked Sucks Perfectly’ was a departure from the first album which featured the title, ‘Angry Palm, Happy Member.’

The lead singer, formerly of THE WOW JAZZLERS, named Grosh Leichman, was yelling for circumspection when it comes to circumcision. Mental Mick, the bass player, scoffed at golf clubs but flubbed his notes.

Blubbering, Grosh Leichman, on all fours, cried, “Gimme that funk!”

Mental Mick jester of funk boogied and boggled until he died. At the funeral his widow, a robot, sparked a doobie. Mick’s zits got colorful, they’re located further inward. The casket was abnormally bedazzled. Then, the officiant took his hot glue gun whipped out a bong, 420 blazed it, and accidentally glued the bong to the casket. Difficulties presented horrifiliciously when Doolsby emancipotatoed real hard. He forgot soup containers. Madness! An eruption of apathy cascaded over the funeral goers. People die, but life continues to spread, bro false hopes. The device broke before the maker could troll the comments section of life.

“Have fun storming the castle,” said Henry the Eighth, “quoted limericks won’t stop me!”

Ornate prosciutto legs taste like jewels of salt covered gravy immigrants. Happy with the proceedings, Grosh Leichman ate Mick’s parents. Land O Lakes department of nope. That’s where nothing happens. It’s stupid. And a merry band of roulette kept getting krunk as f**k.

Critters, remember that movie? Ghoulies floated bad ideas to the sequels that flushed careers, tore up scintillating affairs, and trimmed the Christmas pubes. Prune sandwiches for dunch make Buster Buttz a very convincing private investigator. Purple haze all in Pilsbort’s butt. Lately cronies be cruisin’ or a docking. Docksters defile Doolsby. Enveloping him like, in the best way possible, with foreskin! The punk band, Foreskin, decided it wasn’t punk enough to just hang on the tip of dick like that. Molasses fricasseed properly throughout the festival for heart disease. Scuppering kills on contract, and contracted scupperers defend scallywags begrudgingly.

Sludge tentacle forges were properly considering retiring vestral planks of wonder and goo subsidiaries. Benefactors released frazzled mogwai in swarms so the WOW JAZZLERS could squirt more cake batter corruption throughout Kathmandu. Bob Seger rules, and recently joined the WOW JAZZLERS in divorce. A divorce of separation reverberated as Seger ruled, reprising the role of a bard who likens rugged lug nuts to nugget buggery. He mesmerized giants with cashews placed firmly yet tenderly upon pillows of his own farts.

“Cashew Fart Pillows,” exclaimed Bob Seger. “Pum-pum-pudum-, pum-pum-pudum, pum-pum-pudum, pum-pum-pudum, pum-pum-pudum,” he cooed. “Poopily-poopily-poodee-poodee-peeeeeeee!” Magic! “Whum-wuzzily-whipper-whomper-weeeee-wooooo...”

The crowd was delirious from Bob’s encore, many fainted when he sang, “Ram-bamble-bumble-rump.” But things turned suddenly ugly. Doolsby, rod and whip, firm and flaccid, respectively, cooked up some dank a*s Mentos (the freshmaker), and mixed them mistakenly with crystal meth.

“Well, Rastafarianism will never sweat da man for shekels,” I repeat, and repeat, and repeat, but what is love? Baby, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more. Haddaway for today. Hideaway, starring Jeff Goldblum, blooms romantic ringworms anally. Far away Jeff Goldblum drove boats filled with pudding through fjords of fluorescent beans, docking (not dicks this time) gingerly with rusty spoons attached gingerly dangling dongles to Darius Rucker’s hit single “Let Her Die.” And Winnifred Dingle’s hit single “Don’t Get Eaten By Something Something.”

“Dangling dongles,” declared Darius.

Pilsbort just died unceremoniously, for the last time. Doolsby burned his body until there was nothing left. Doolsby took his powers. And then he was the new Pillsbort. But, like a reverse Pillsbort. A Trobsllip. Then he docked (with dicks) a fine vessel, aka his dick, with Darius Rucker’s left n****e goblin. Gobblenips, Rucker’s n****e goblin, will be the final character to be introduced in this tale.

At home, now he’ll pigglesworth his way into a pair of Pigglesworth’s tuxedo pants. Pigglesworth did not actually exist. Until, that is, Gobblenips finished docking with Doolsbury/Trobsllip. That is when he was born. Knob gobbin codswallopers Pillsbort The Immortal once again resurrected “Pills-Abort” the new brand of day after pill. Pillsbort then killed Branden, abortion style. They called it a pillsbortion. Blooper reel host Groper Higglin died 10 years ago. There are no more blooper reels. Stink Skirpin, another immortal god, was a useless character…until now.

“What Pillsbort made is unacceptable. He must perish.” said Stink Skirpin (another immortal god).

She couldn’t kill Pillsbort, but she knew who could…nobody…knew this, but the “immortal gods” are not actually immortal…not…really a surprise to anyone, is it? Stink Skirpin, the perhaps ‘not so immortal’ immortal god, lived forever! Until his untimely death…Branden knew Stink was a girl…who was once a man. Branden discovered this due to extensive knowledge that Stink gained living forever! But now nothing is sacred, so Branden perished.

“RIP BRANDAD” every immortal character yelled as the grammar police arrested there vocal chords.

“Your my favorite”. said Grammar Messy (a character that has been here the whole time) to officer Spell Check, opposor of ignorance. Lionel Messy: Grammar’s cousin died. No one disputed.

Sections of NYC smell of tulips and wooden shoes, but not fermented squid because inky coffee enemas don’t smell (surprisingly). Treat jiffy lube stations with greased monkey respect since they are greasier monkeys.

“It could have been heavier than the moon, but it was as frail as an earthling,” pondered Pigglesworth.

That night he peered upward, eyes wide, through fog like gray ghostly specters, randomly floating by. He saw a keyhole. Through it troglodytes scooting on the waves rehearsing cosmic twerking, a beautiful nothing. Ethereal skin mites sing of sunshine in the basement of life.

“Sometimes candy was ripped out of clinched a******s named Ben and Jerry,” confessed a liar.

Brenda. Stop lying Brenda. Jesus. You’re killing the baby. Put down your butter knife. Let’s make more excuses, not lies. HOLY BIBLE!

Pigglesworth opened the book of Pancakes. “Much better than waffles’ The Bathroom Reader,” he thought. Alarmist propaganda, that bathroom reader. “Give up!” it told Pigglesworth. “Turn yourself into a burden of characters!”

The only helmet for work suggested flap jacks are useless. Mark Beaver Hopkins III wore nothing, because he didn’t exist. Joseph Yearly Jr. was a stupid person who jumped into a volcano. Steve Xavier Xavier stuffed himself with dynamite and, you know, blew up. Trixer the happy penguin mostly just entertained himself in the ocean. He has no connection to this story. Let’s move on.

Rupert Jingle, son of Raul Jingle, said “enough! You two have had your fun.”

Raul Jingle was reasonable enough to progress the storyline. He made jingles for vending machine users, no matter how many edible underpants are purchased. Raul Jingle continued more characters like these losers: Branden, Dexter Fartsworthy, and that’s it…besides Frazier Suxatfootball. Sacrifice Jones cola pop for Swendle Fitzsimmons’ butterscotch tarty tart candies.

“Who took freedom diatribes on the road, man?” whined Golgacock.

“Wonderful characters prancing in muddled narratives are not donated. They are clinched.” replied Pillsbort.

Intelli-Gents pondered the western wear in East Carolina spas, but Spankers Pancreas IV, the dope pope, ordained the sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeit fashion plugs of Mauritius. In an emergency handjob, stop action porno is hopefully claymation safety first. But what is safety if not safe words. But what are words if not tea leaves, everywhere? Search the catacombs for Pilsbort’s body. Use caution strategically whenever statistics manifest. Stinkers squirt juice specifically plum into coffee soaked VIDEO GAMEZ.

“MAH GAMEZ,” said Grogger Van Herowitz, “THEYZ TAKEN MAH LIFE AWAY!”

Fine dining experiments typically end with diarrhea. Jiggly puff was panicked at the sheer velocity contained within the speed force panties and sighed, “Ahhh…how sophomoric.”

“Well, farts! Boom.”

Those tarantulas sing so pretty on The Voice. Tarantulyonce ate Beyonce during JAZZLERFEST, and commenced to snacking on the rest of Destiny’s Child. Fartsworthy was livid. She mourned Beyonce but not Michelle, because srsly is not a word and they decided to use srsly, like, all the time…then they cabbage-patched their way into history.

“WE’LL JUST suck.” they proclaimed.

“Srsly, why not?” said Frazier because he was so NOT sophomoric.

Check your work, for this literary masterpiece shall not be sullied with your dribble, sir!!11one.

“Show your mother the way to my secret crawlspace, its dark and moist, spiders’ nest ridden, but forbidden delights lie within.”

The accident took a toll on our heroes. They turned to murder of Beyonce. Frazier specialized in bringing back the dead poets society and riling up New York street gangs.

“Trolling, see, it’s not just for fishin’ boats.” said Frazier.

Crybabies come galloping in all forms, the best of em loud and boring. The worst movie killed my ambition and my libido. Steamrollers on icy lakes are substantially less dangerous than icebreakers spearmint gum. Get busy Sean Paul exclaimed, dicin’ them taterz! “Roll the bones until the future furniture bares no future design flaws. Roll the sticky on the golden road, but if you want to cross the bride, you have to pay the toll.” These remarks bridged a chasm of greatness once broken t*****s repaired by farts went boom.

“Captain,” shouted the downer, “my good times jazzed dy-no-mite! Now I poo pooed my puddy pants!”

Peeners off weeners, the starboard piss bucket sloshed butt holes a frightful stiffies-inducing experience.

“Ham,” thought Dingle Berry Butt would be a better name than Queef McPeenerson but Toilets P. Poopersmith would be fingerbanging made up words.

A unified presidential cabinet is usually easiest if the electorate takes off his or her thong top hat, a new style. But it is cumbersome when Seven Mary Three diklikers are dead. Referencing dumb songs are so LMFAO when we party all night. My thong top hat was “BOOBY’S BARNDOOT TAPROOM” worthy, finally! It was the color of a belabored point, covered in the sweat topless dancers and whiskey drunk cowboys.

Crisco Hunx, the drunk cowboy from Estonia, lassoed a monument of Bastet the bloodied goddess.  A pilgrimage to the far end of Booby’s Barndoor Taproom, will enlighten every cowboy worth their spurs. More beer gets gulped at Booby’s Barndoor Taproom than all the taverns in Middle-Earth. The taps never run dry because the kegs are charmed, blessed by Bastet, so “feasts of drunkenness” and Sir Poop.

“How to treat cowboys like me? Like Sir Poop does!” screamed Crisco Hunx.

Cultures and crazed mathematicians intimidate masters of the feast of drunkenness. At the auction of Pillsbort’s estate treasures of remarkable cheese, radar dishes, radishes, irradiated snitches, and Pillsbort himself satisfied Sir Poop. Back to things worthy of Branden’s attention such as knockers soft and jizzey with lazers cutting tremendous s**t-piles until gravity lost control.

 “Can we fix this f*****g nippel on this space horse before it twists a tit?” asked the whoresmith. “I guess we’re screwed, everything’s fucked!”

Good job on that Inglish test, butty. Gwarfner Demotrolis died many years ago. He was a legend. Destruction is imminent, and some would say it’d be already happeneding.

“You would do well,” warned the cupfiller, “Those who use vowels need not prioritize things.”

Knots are not spotted at spas, but weeks are weak to tweak a squeaking leek. “Come on,” the lineleveler insisted, “flow like sweet electric waves of oms.”

Tramlinton Farshpunkleschmidt, pretzel chemist, blew and blew harder, until he gave birth on the sails of a skiff, a salty nutty scene indeed. Sea air wafts through the window of the chief of parades who coincidentally hates parades. Santa Claus gets fucked up on some damn pills. And misses the period of the last ballast.

“What the,” questioned the weightliftist, “is a parade without eyes cream, and goredogs?”

Trouble everyday makes for pop-o-matic poop-o-matic’s. Griff Fickler fickles griffs on the daily. The fluffer rod but boring go forth. Question: Are we not men? Answer: We are Devo, our first album rules.

“Isn’t it time,” queried the old agitator, “to open the ancient flip phone?”

“Yes,” stammered Doolsby. He cried tears of grief for days. Then, opening the phone, he saw gizzards spilling milk flavored duds on rice noodles because snack time calls no matter who y’are.

Rodney Simonten Von Hergravel did not exist. Ever. Anywhere. Yusef Weinsteff. This f****n guy. John Smith, Hannibal from the A-Team, and another warm body, conquered a smuggling ring that Pillsbort started before he perished. John Smith kicked open the Booby’s Barndoor Taproom door. He then took a shotgun blast to the face. FLARNG! Crisco Hunx, the cowboy, responded by gettin stab happy, stabbing John Smith to life. His magic switchblade brought back Pillsbort as well! Stone Cold Steve Austin and Fwixie Finklestone immediately ate John Smith with a delicious sauce made out of Pillsbort. Scandal, the band, fought hungry eyes. They bet on which would be more civilized the odds or the normals. Who is going steady this week in Louisville? We may need to win a lot of cheezburgs if catsup catches up with madness. Keep your persmecktive when normalizes put mashables under yer tuchus.

“Too much anus” said no one ever.

Expect flurries of skinflakes at your most convenient neighborhood Applebee’s when you order pecan-encrusted anus. Get a side of human breastmilk. Hold the taters.

“Brenda! Don’t like every single rotting post just because pill poppers are priapismic with fake news!” said Pillsbort. Finally, his last words were known.

“Ham,” requested Bob, “that kid from The Sand Lot fooled me into thinking cops were secretly SPACE BADGERZ!”

Pillsbort added “…” because he was a rotting carcass.

Remember our goals? They died and Pillsbort lives on. Fine. No one mourned when we finally lost Pillsbort. Here’s how it happened: He wandered off in the woods…but the he came back and everyone rejoiced!

Progress City capital of Hulkogastan, Arby’s. Churddar Bercon is their national medicine for the hangriness. Prospects of a potential baseball dinner are looking, salivating, and smoking decent. Deep breaths hurt. Ouch. Mammoth pajamas can insulate the scrawniest package. Backpack through Big Butt Mountain and Ding Dong, Texas with deep sorrow brows unless chocolate could possibly flow forever. It’s cold, but business is booming. Elves dwell rigorously while relaxing dwarves pilfer Snackables and Lunchables. Why reform airport security? It’s a joke, that’s why. Toddler patdowns, removal of dignity, and a song and dance number with sasquatch.

In service of the Martian King, his agents destroyed everyone we’ve ever met. EVERYONE. FOREVER. Their secret weapon: CHEEZE. BEAMZ OF CHEDDAH! In the empty halls of Earth’s dairy stores whispers and dairy drawers lurked the shadows of resistance to lactose magnates. Milk Barons squeezed of their lives like the poor cow udders. Campbell’s One Word Soup was completely populated dummies.

“You’re the dummy, listen here you dummy!” screamed the soup can.

“What kind a’sammich?” asked Bob. “Mustarayonaise,” dipped in sarcasm, Bob continued, “Pestosabi-Q!”

Manwich, the king over all this demanded meat. Tofurkeylicious veganaisetastic meals masticated nicely and spilled down upon esophageal jelly donuts.

“MMMmmmMMmmMMMmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMgooooood!” said, King Manwich, “Shove offal off m’lady!”

A joust withoust toast ist a metaphor. Dandy fops in full garb gargle chili peps in King Manwich’s castle.  Doo-wops, the King’s bard, sang, “Cum berland gap, cum bath!” And was promptly ejected through the airlock into sprass. The crowd came alive within the bathroom, cheering “Cumberland Gap! Cumberland Gap!” Cummerbunds were worn even though on heads but ties were strewn, hewn and plumed.

Come with us or we will get fucked. It ain’t gettin greasy like 1982 was. Images of mages took ages to sweep kick a leg, Johnny. No mercy for laundry day, just for the communists and their smallpox sweaters. Doubloons bought petunias, iPads, merkins, and bitcoins instead of real stock. Stones roll satisfactorily uphill leaving s**t in crevices and not adhering to sticky guidelines hitherto physics. Traps are unlikely…NOT! Puzzles are NOT deep…enough! Unless less chess contests taught distraught bots, BUT handmade candles don’t perspire, miraculously raccoons teach each creature willing to feature talented leisure. Miraculously, Ulysses wasn’t useless.

“Whoa!” said Pillsbort, “I’m loving life, and now we have a ballgame!”

Jimmy Buckets, of the famous “Buckethouse Pancake Shoppe,” home of the Surly Syrup Challenge, slurped hot sizzurp like a queen#. Pickles need pickling and pigs to justify personal space invasions. Sensational Szechuan outhouse remedy gives small children the pox. Reads aloud Jesus K. Christ Esquire, sticking to the point of, “Pointy crayons can cure da pox if da da da.”

Discover da daily deer piss syzzurp, on sale at Buckethouse Pancake Shoppe. Free until sunrise with couponz.

“No couponz? Bueno! Si, pendejo! Tacos from La Taqueria suck. Feliz Navidad,” declared some guero.

The guano salsa with huevos comes highly respected. Entangled tentacles teleported to treacherous terrain in Tehran. Check the DeLorean! Tasty flux capacitors malfunctioning flatulate yip yip dogs and yappy gravelly voiced monks. Mr. Poop eats Sir Poop’s dinner only to laugh at Donald’s mistakes. Compromise warns bottom ticklers until hilarity consumes sea urchins for decades. At the Poop family reunion, pills were prescribed but angrily supposited. Grandma Poop understood the difference between cornmeal and corn bread? She screamed, “Stick to basic math, ya’ll!”

They ignored Grandpa Poop, “I told yu’nz about China.”

Meanwhile, across the table, Dolly Poop (who knew how to terminate cyborgs) mentioned her parenthood was for free.

 “Pass me children please,” Dolly quivered, “I must consume their tiny parts.” All the Poop family gasped in surprise.

Cindy Pee was, in theory, a child passed to Dolly. This is nonsense. Seriously guys are butthurt again. Moving right along to tonight’s menu: Toe Jam ala mode followed by, pickled spleens fricasseed by our master chef Pillsbort the Unkillable. Who knows nothing spawns the shitkicking showdown. The homeless pickle searched Montana for a crisper version of a crisper for his briny friends. The Poops talked about their stories abroad in the land of nod. Sir Poop drove angered Branden to the arctic tundra to cool off. It didn’t work. More furious than ever, I, Branden, melded with me, Branden the Branden Borg, AKA BRANDAD, destroys the World of false Brandens. Happiness is here for good? Shrek 2 played at the Poops’ family reunion.

Suddenly Granpa Poop bellowed, “Da Gawdamn ogres just got done drunk mah mantin duh!”  

Everyone calls Montana to check on the pickle. Generosity was abound with gifts from the Branden Borg. Cartoon character money is good gravy considering the risks of wormhole extraction.

“We have cut to the chase, baby” the narrator exclaimed.

Poison, the band, will sue Warrant for cheetah-print exposure. Blood pressure leggings for granny, that’s amore! Own your patties, recycle your knees, reuse the hazardous needles, and always deep-cleanse copper underwear. Snakeskin sunglasses shade the cyclops on the motorway of schadenfreude.  He screeches them tires “Suuuuum b***h!” Look out!” screamed like the cyclops. New blood trails led to troubled lands that were a super affordable addiction. May our heroes live on moonbeams alive and well. Maligayang pasko! Dead! Pillsbort could be. Rumours abound.

 

EPILOGUE

 

So close, but patience is lacking.

“How does one prepare for imminent M&Ms?” said Doolsby to Pickle.

“GERONIMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” cried this story.

As it drilled deep into the psyche like a parasitic worm of destiny. Preparing for battle, Golgacock armed with cheese stood against the Brandens and every dead and living Pillsbort ever. The Pillsborts invaded the eastern seaboard of Golgumm, largest continent of Mars. Waves of Brandens and Pillborts collided with Golgacock’s horde of apple pie throwing cheeze-beasts, which immediately exploded into putrid curd. “Who exploded?”

“Ahhh, putrid curd,” screamed the Brandens. Hapless civilians, you know, died a bunch.

“SUCK CURDS, FOOLS!” whispered Grayson Adreeklin, the curd whisperer of the north.

Grayson Adreeklin was decapitated, but lived through it. His head speaks to curds from atop Mount Rewinbredlin now. His body was lost in New York during “the fappening” celebration. Golgacock seduced Grayson on the battlefield while being seduced by King Manwich and Skittles, the cat. The battle orgy raged seductively onward only hindered by cheeze fumes and one lone singular pair of multiple sclerosis trapeze performers. Surprisingly their acrobatics produced more poop than pop. In the audience, Doolsby bootlegged a rare recording of the acrobatic performance with commentary from Sir Poop’s nephew, Little Lord Poopelroy.

Meanwhile, on Mars, the waves of Brandens furiously screamed “Your pancakes will never be waffles!” while pounding croquet mallets together. Grayson Adreeklin shrugged, even though he didn’t have shoulders. Creeping up my buttcrack, my g-string underwear was borrowed from Bob Nugent’s friend Bob Nugent’s cancerous butthole.

“You should get that checked out,” quipped Dr. Poop.

“Butt stuff is no laughing matter,” said Madam Chartruese Queeftronic, goddess of vagina stuff.

Spotty vision can only make butt stuff when really horny. Thousands of Fraziers laughing at their own farts, couldn’t troll for kind buds.

“Mothafuckin’ snakes on a plane, definitely no!”

Ham biscuits are the specialty at the Styx lounge, just ask BRANDAD for directions. Playing on mah tippy-toes, beetles wearing socks bebopped and rocked-steady, just ask Billy Shears. Forget the past, it’s about time to repeat the future. M.A.N.T.I.S. (Most Annoying Niblet Tooter Irritating Strombolis) was a delicious D.W.A.R.P. (Deputy Waffle Aggravating Research Pandas) from H.I.V.E (Hierarchy of International Vengeance and Extermination) led by B.E.N. (Beano Entropic Nesters) fighting commies.

“Stalin wasn’t that bad,” professed Thought, an ethereal being being weird.

 Thought, generally a b*****d and especially late at night, crudely expressed chemically imbalanced impulses toward toddlers. Thought, who was never absent, vanished during the Poop family reunion. Thought the Poops were pooped from thought experiments involving hammers and peepee poopoo stuff. Maturely we silently did some mouth stuff in the utility closet. Think about direction, and poopy runs, and gravity. How does any of it work?

Well, Thought explained, “Grandpa Poop once told me there’s an acronym for everything, especially D.I.P.R.A.G. (Doodie Intergalactic Pyro Rigamarole Alfredo Gorilla). Cuz see, my cousin, Darryl had this here…whutsitcalled…oh yah, a shart attack, and he f****n’ sploded man.” Doolsby teared up.

“Why would weeeeeeners flop, flip, and flubble if they didn’t also bubble?!”

Doolsby then ran from Mom and the lobster KRAMPUS because f**k it. So Doolsby and Grayson Adreeklin got hitched. Magic was in demand, luckily none had been supplied…yet. But what about the reserves of magic Mexican tortillas? They found some spare magic in David Copperfield. The zone of danger floated down the Toronto highway. The truck stop lifts tired spirits trapped in 18 wheelers.

 “Walk away please, you’re blocking the view,” thought Thought.

“Oh Thought, I ought to not spot Camelot another plot shot,” said Boraught. Trotting around were otters, precious baby otters, skeet skeet hot dog, sweet hot dog.

“Right smack dab in the middle of my kitchen, a dumbass traitor-a*s American,” grumbled the toaster. Toasters can talk but only on meth.

Here on Mars, Earthlings serve meatballs to mutant Brandens to prepare for the inevitable: snowboarding. Kindness infests doorways in door frames.

“Dude I paid $11 an empty pack of Kentucky Rattlers. What the s**t!”

Hecklers suckling an auto-tuned fart entered purgatory carrying colostomy bags and tools, ungodly tools, used primarily for dental work. Suspicions of chest probes have aligned cavernous colons for cleansing mouth stuff and trash. Wheelies were popped in celebration of attaining nirvana. What is your major pain, numbnuts? Feeling them feels, Doolsby joined the army, a group of rag tag failed liberal professors. The Pillsborts sand synth-pop renditions of the hit song The National Anthem of the United States of America. They became frenzied from political pizza pie charts which showed drastically decreasing brain waves among wow jazzlers.

“No!” proclaimed Professor Equality. “I appreciate semitones of neutral territory but like, extremists, and stuff is not keeping my chill beverage that chill.”

Barb Dennis ate dinner outside Wal-Mart, while furiously crying wolf about bombing at the improv supermarket. It was unexpected. Usually snoozing, giggling, and moaning, carousels are square but awake within multiple triangles of parallelograms. Popcorn creeps down back alley streets during swim meets, pairs with beets from DJ Teets mini mall. Better be dressed by 10 or jesters grab all the bacon-wrapped peppermints now! They’re minty, yet smoky desires, stuffed with just the right amount of paste and liquorice.

Elmer Barnaclebuns, author of “Unborn Me,” signed my log, “Good luck logging your jams into your face.” Damn, son, I’m a Brandad! Pickle my cucumbers before ham trivia starts jowl banging salty pools of pork. Small forks raised high in tiny kitchens across Bulgaria, and it’s the end of the year…in eight days. It’s almost the end of the year…expecting the story soon, but lazy buggers who don’t wait patiently won’t be excluded but instead secluded on Pillsbort’s island of dead Pillsborts.

Razzmatazz on succotash trashed my hog, it was a porcine travesty of pristine pork magnitudes. Skittles Francis Bacon, first lady cat of the Martian chancellor of the galaxy formerly known as Glug, kingdom of Slug and sluglike beings. Skittles graduated with a degree in sugar magic, granular wizardry and confectioner sorcery. Dark humor versus sugar magic tickets on sale January 1^st. Sign up at www.goblinbed.com.

An episode, a story, a lie, a masterpiece of cinematic tomfoolery and literary lunacy. Literally, written by Moscowl Dooblins. Directed by Floor Giffcarls and some a*****e. Maybe it is chalk *crunch*, yep the best.

“Talc to me, baby!” punned Branden, then “by the powder invested in me,” slurred Brandens “I now denounce you for that toaster incident.”

“So this is Christmas, Texas, toast Christmas,” he mumbled.

Bells will be shot if rung during a performance of Careless Whisper. George Michael sang angelic hymns from the heart. He will belt words of malicious truth.

“Sweet Christmas.”

Cut to the bone, Doolsby was drinking tears and juggling juggalos until the roof collapsed. Lil’ Jon traversed from the window to the load-bearing structure until the beads of sweat descended from his supple scrotum in a salty drip, puddles form one word from following rules.

New Kids: the Series starred AIDS champion, Pete Homicide, former janitor to the Sultan of pedestrians. Pete, Christmas scotch, the other actors, and s**t, messed around like ten lil’ knobbies drunk on Mad Dog 20 20 that was spiked with old man after shave. However, it was time for the first episode. Violence, the name of the episode, aired. It was about trucks. The plot centered around Rutty O’Gonnaugh, that doesn’t know where his dad put the long-cut hash-taters. The critics unanimously fell asleep during forever.

“Wake the hell up! Hahaha, you fools! Taste the poisonous art of Kimchi! Hahaha, you fools, wake!”

Then the critics scratched and snorted, but mostly remained groggy. The public responded with overwhelming phlegm. Surprisingly an uprising of appetizing Taiwanese hamburgers, filled with pills, thrills, and chills gave the world buckets of flatulent zombies until it spilled. The fighting ensued decades, and it postponed soup slurpers from their duty.

Travesty was a dancer specializing in jazz fingers. He glisse’d all over God’s car.

“Good girl, you’ve done me,” Rutty said to Tina.

Rutty was cantankerous, but kind. However, F**K DAT! Let’s find a tattoo parlor. Ink ain’t running this show! Stand up against Pilsbury tyranny. Hambone injuries aside, we must end this respect for drywall repair. It plastered mommy’s bits into bas-relief upon crown moulding. Lollipop monsters undulated knick-knacks, paddy-whacks and unfortunate dog boners.

“What constitutes a narrative?” said Greervin, “Perhaps this epilogue shimmies through Luxembourg, or my soul.”

Milk flows like weewee in the trough, intensifying classic damage to and hilarity.

“Molasses, condensed malk, and BRAINZ are collected in tins intended for…forget it. You scoundrel!”

Laughing, rather sadly, he thought “Grave gravel groveled fro gravy groves near Greenland Greervin greenery.”

Goals were souls trapped outside fishbowls and died. Blubbering brains are clubbed by despised auditors from Golgacock’s office of auditioning and opposite transgendering. Travesty plagued the institution, corruption was rewarded with wow-jazzled, beadazzled, whimmy-wham-wham-wazzled AND big incarceration. Smoke up for friends!

“Crabapples and nerf-herders” said Leia, “that’s all, I’m dead now.”

Railroad demons are devouring celebrities like The Sarlacc pit. Can we try to live without Facebook? How much butter will we need? Fifty unmarked cans of processed butter? Is butter your favorite? Nah, but Scandinavian seafood salad, tho…srsly e gawd. Would you hit 10,000 likes for blankets of comfortable butter? Butter? Yes, please. Double salted or, but spicy, I what? Too much butter talk. Four characters, Margarine, Sweet Cream, Peanut, and Soy Boy walk into a frying pan American style, and blame udders for transcendental fuckery.

“WHHHHHYYYYYYYYYY?!?!!!” screamed the Four.

Why?

Hampers hampered humpbacks laundry hour and now Soy Boy deployed the other Butters to Buttrovia in search of Trivia Night. They all melted faces with the Beatles death metal cover band, The Bleedtles. Pall PcApartknee, Gore Hairyson, Spawn Sinnin, and Ringo Starr, with their producer Rik Rueben have recorded statistics tracking technology documents. Scientifically, of course. Their prison entertains guests and armed skeleton guards, while vile businessmen did beastialities behind the ol’ butter-churnin’ dumpster-barn.

A statement written by the curator slandered the attorney over her mishandling of MY BALLS, and that it was. The island containing cute rats submerged due to butter into the spreadosphere expanding the capacity for hydrogenated drag queens bent on sea-foam fashion. Slobbered some ghosts, “WOOSAH!” before viscosity peaked and thermal coagulation. Macaroni penguins don’t exist. Fits thrown by spastic Branimals who attempt to kill off fun, suffer poor eccentricities leading to death. Mechanical digestion short circuits aid the allies in the invasion of your mind. Elementals live amongst Malory’s toilet room. Remember that. It’s important for later.

“I will forget dad.”

“Whoa, you must honor Lord Father with gifts of obedience and cheezesteaks.”

Once upon a cheezesteak, a young merman wandered too deep in the sea of digestion.

“Neptune, guide my macaroni penguins through this treacherous sea of cheezewhiz and low-grade jazz,” crooned the merman.

He noticed a shining beacon of cheese, just beyond a tidal wave of glowing Velveeta yellow a castle stood gloriously atop grandma’s mound. Guarding pernicious treasures, The Bleedtles practice fencing with giant tunas, however our merman is sly and packed camouflage and a traquilizer blowgun. Approaching sundown, macaroni penguins surrounded grandma’s mound awaiting just one signal: secret salami Velveeta cheese slices, catapulted directly into the courtyard. A chain of fools ruined defensive formation spoiling basketball crap. Wounded fans fought the sore coach Krispy Krene.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck!!!” shouted the soldiers who pooped their shorts.

“How long must complacency reign?” said Pillsbort.

To whom jiggy bits were bestowed. Willenium continued despite constant unrelenting Independence Day fireworks fired by the penguins. Macaroni is delicious. Just the two of us, we’ll eat macaroni, just you and I. Romantic TWO BROTHERS in summertime stroll cyber-dragons through meadows populated with lazer-bees. They specialize in fresh cheat codes for Double Dragon. Listen for Abobo battle cries hidden in the static donkey. A fine donkey it was. Maybe less punching but more fake doors leading to nowhere would be ideal.

Refusal of adherence to guidelines for men in black jeans results in stunning buttz. Bad boys keep pouring rad toys into sad ploys for attention. They require cereal but not Wheaties, because f**k champions. Full of stuff, stuffed full of beer and mesmerized by tunnels, Luigi began shimmying around like Mario on a bender. Pabst blue balls won a ribbon epically at the ol’ hog swap when suddenly a musical demagorgon trampled the Budweiser Clydesdales, which made horse meat very inexpensive.

Jimmy then said, “Pish posh! I quit.”

Now he rummages through oil tankers covered in sawdust flavored vape juice. Bees or beads, depending on a cold, but anyways, hated Jimmy Van Treegliv, aka The Bad Guy, screamed for his blood.

“BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD,” screamed the bees, or beads.

How many mutual words does it take to build Jimmy’s cold translation device? Chaotic final days bring about esoteric musings from jimmy’s b-hole.

“Phhhhhhhhhhhhhplbbbbbttttttt!! M**********r!!”

Suddenly Jimmy. That’s all my hopes and urine, trickled out like ambrosia from a Roman courtyard fountain onto my Mexican pizza. Jimmy danced to hiw own album. It was a masterpiece of energetic, trash can exploding, heavy nail biting, heartbeat pounding, end your lifing, nasally in just the right way, gooey goodness. His dance rattled cages, shook candy loose, blew Pilsbort’s ghost straight into a confused AHS storyline.

But Jimmy thought to himself, “Boy, waiting for pancakes can be like exactly that. Also, who knew waffles could fly?”

Kent State, real estate agent, handed Jim a deed. Indeed, it was a deed, but it had expired. Buster Buttz was enraged. Fervently avoiding anything deedish, Buster complained “Why does this have holes for ownership regarding charges? Loopholes galore.”

In stouterspace, manks go in reverse largely due to deer risking your car durability. Pillsbort lives again! Then, drowned. But it was a Lazarus pool. Pillsbort is now alive again! Immortal, really. A robot? No…he has a robot named Pillsbort. JC Pennies has a sale on robot penises, human antennas, animal seeds, plant meat, fake barf, real souls, and DVDs. Pop a pig in the blanket until a hanging chad shows up reveals mystery! Here comes Santa balls out like what?

“Panini poppers perturbed unstoppable pantywaist and relegated dripping sex,” said Pillsbort from his throne.

Lord of all stories, king of all tales, remembered in the hearts of all participants young and old. The sum of…wrote Pillsbort…is imagination, that’s not filtered by coffee or strife. Stepping on toes. Crushing poor people’s dreams. Incomplete sentences. F**k all that, man. We get by. The story abides. Long live Pillsbort, Pilsbort, Doolsby, THE WOW JAZZLERS, Skittles, Woolzby, Fartworthy, Fartsworthy, all the Brandens, as it is written…the end.