"Scream for the essence of doom! The residence of all Harpies will quell
thy offal"
Johan Borkman, 1465 a.d.
Something was wrong, seriously bloody wrong.
Old 'Doggy' Slipwell grimaced with pain as Quipman Rotunda squashed a healthy portion of Parmesan against his chest.
"Aaaargh" whined 'Doggy', in obvious agony, "Arrrhoooooo".
Rotunda didn't care, he owned the lot, the whole dammed lot; the carrots,
the pies, the sloppy mess at number 32, he owned it all and didn't care.
But that was neither here nor there, as HMS Alabaster was setting sail for the Caribbean...
In a dastardly display of intermingled peas, the Captain muttered
"We're the boys from Brigslow Hills, we eat grass and thrive on pills".
Nobody had considered HMS Alabaster much of a threat, the Captain was a fucking looney and hadn't eaten anything other that cardboard for fifteen years, which was good.
1. Never, never, pick a peck of pickled peppers.
2. List all your favourites, mmm, Raisin Bowlittle (the Hungarian
Fairy).
3. Waltz your way to a humble crop; spinach me hearties, spinach!
4. Burgers of goose you say, hmm, a fine emporium you have, fine.
5. Sale's on! Pack the rack of perky, yellow...French?
"Back in line boys! The Squid's a movin' tonight!" exclaimed the toaster, whilst reaching for another hearty helping of Mama's fine earthy pud!
MAMA'S FINE EARTHY PUD
Damn fine & fresh, MMMM!
Back to basics, this was the message, or so they said at head office.
Basic meant nothing to Domino Drury, except...a conga line!
Da, da, da, da, da, da...da, da, da, da, da, da...da, da, da, da, da,
da...
Domino was truly a simpleton, he wore a cape, a hat, and a stinking parrot
carcass, which he used to prod and affectionately squash on the windscreens
of unsuspecting motorists. Nobody cared though, they knew someone would
mow him down in a hail of bullets, sooner or later.
6. Picture yourself at the coast...we'll cook dinner!
7. Unlimited, yes, it is, it is, yes, the South!
Passed out on the mantle piece was none other that Olga Demwissle, who had
earlier been referred to as Her Majesty. Olga, in another of her 'moods',
had swiped a jar of pickles from an unsuspecting black-marketeer. High Street was a-buzz with rumours regarding the variety of pickle; was it a Northern Antelope, a Potted Quillbister, or perhaps an Easel Keet?
However, the rumour mill ground to a halt...all eyes focused on the stranger...BART LEVINGSWORTH!!! a.k.a. Dune Boy, Trans-Siberian Weasel, Factory Lad, Motor Bunny...then there was nothing.
We are one! Therefore we ride the waves of Borsley Point!
Then someone popped a cap in his ass, and he ceased to write such
incoherent twaddle...but the morrow will come...
