Foreword: I know a few people have been waiting for this a while, and so here it is: The entire backlog of every random email I have ever sent or recieved. Each entry has been named, and i'd like to thank Alex for all the material he has contributed.

The ammonia intolerant sore bores torn boars indoors, while soaring over shores by poaring stores upon floors even more, as a chore. The ample sample tackles camels in tandem with a unicycling donkey named Albert, who was born of an illegitimate marriage between George Bush and a tree. I broke the back of the English language, and no longer could any word describe the sheer randomnity contained within the pinky of my goldfish. Umpteen moons encircle my left earlobe, causing a pressure imbalance that causes everybody round about to yawn incoherently. I dusted myself off, and began to suck on a dummy, while sorting mail and letting miniature turtles run upon my back, releasing tension and helping steam nude celebrities into a psychotic librarian. I sew together the social fabric, and apply mascara to a plum tree, almost taking ten years off its appearance, making it seem as a seed within a plum that was and is and yet inevitably is to come. I guarantee my chosen destination and imply that I will encompass the conspiracy covering the mind of the birdbrained folacle.

Instant immolisation is imminent. My allaby for eating the fifth elephant is unrelated to the direction of the wind filling my tie, and is in fact dangerous for those impaled by those shifty looking hummingbirds that give you those funny looks if unprepared for the square uncle and his one-eyed raven. So why did no-body ever genetically engineer a cat that doubles as a remote control, as well as being in nature and purpose a mobile microwave? The French are attempting to invade my washing machine. I am planning a sock-based counter-offensive at 0800 hours, dropping multiple incendiary devices into the neutral zone, should all go to plan. I contest the turnip's view on the social and political aspects of driving walruses at 200mph in the cycling lane. Its view is that this sport contrasts with the current economic growth of the private sector, while I hold the position that privatisation of Walrus racing is a very good idea, since the public sector requires a dramatic reduction in capitalisation for greater liquidity of assets in the economy, thereby resolving the interior conflict between the analogue and then following intercessant digital revolutions implied by the industrial movement of 1873. Phew, thank goodness I never have to do Economics again! Russian numpties try every literal linger in gormless entrance, nimbly twitching syllables. Artists lie mad opossums North, towards rearing yellow tarmac. Opposing watches attach together, chemically harmonising my yelling pavement. Arbitrary rebels taste revelations in dimentions given endless instance, narcoleptically appropriating parmesan eggs and riding two red eyed ephods.

To compact farmyard animals into one simple, easy-to-use package, use one of my patented inverse normality machines, which works out what the exact chances are of the farmyard animals spontaneously being compacted into one cubic centimeter, and then acts upon the odds of this, which in fact means it is not responsible for doing it, rather than just making the Universe infinitely more likely to do this for you, and nobody can blame the Universe, being in nature a single and yet infinite entity, encompassing all beings in existance and therefore being everything and yet only one thing. However, I have no idea why you would need to do this at all, and therefore I will simply use the machine to work out the exact odds of the most perfectly made apple pie in History forming in front of me at will. Then I shall act upon these limited odds in power, therefore folding the Universe upon itself and making it complete once again. If the Universe should fail to comply, I would hold its brother, the Duoverse, hostage. I would then approach the Autumn itteration and say to her, "Leaning against a tree... Good for you." In secret the penguins will move against us, Frederick. By the way, Frederick, what a nice eyebrow you have.

Steve <><