When thy nose has become detached, only then will thy cows utter "boomba".
     John Pingwell, 1809

"Pass the sauce, please" screeched Ron; needless to say everyone complied, and within minutes Ron was awash with saucy delights. Then there was the porous bathroom floor; only after repeated moisture loss did Tom, Hans and Mary realise that holes were not a practical inclusion in the good design of a bathroom.

Got your Green Bag?

"Welcome to the Squid & Nancy show!" exclaimed the footpath mucus. Ramachandra was a little surprised by the casual welcome he received, but of course, he was here to see the show and no damned casual-welcoming footpath mucus was going to ruin that, no siree.
Upon entering the enormous earthen mound, now home to the Grand Pollop Theatre, Ramachandra was accosted by an enormous cabbage that was exalting the virtues of parrots...
"Aye, there be more to parrots than meets the eye", exclaimed the cabbage.
Ramachandra was largely unimpressed by the ranting cabbage, he'd been to all manner of theatrical displays and was particularly hard to impress; although he was once rather taken by Bruno Silestino's farting gumboot, but that was a long time ago...

Meanwhile, across town in Grandpa Bertie-Moodwell's singing sock emporium, there was trouble; big trouble. It seems old Grandpa had opened his store at 7pm as usual, only to find in a dark corner of the store a man, ranting, sweating and swinging wildly on a pair on 1972 crooning knee-high stockings.
"What are you doing?!" yelled Grandpa.
"Ha, ha, he, he, I'm swinging, swinging, swinging free!" replied the shrouded character.
"Crimson chippies!" he cried as he swung.
"Great Ernest covered in snow!" he continued.
"Look here you swinging nutter!" said Grandpa angrily, "this is my store, I sell singing socks, and you, clearly, are not a singing sock, now get the fuck away from my shop!"

- Pass the test, I'll give you a mint-flavoured jube.
- Eat the middle bits, ladies and gentlemen (united under a pastry hat).

But, you might ask, what happened next? That of course, is neither here nor there, as further across town a man was oiling his tambourine, war was on the horizon...
That man was Whislop 'Wayne' Partridge-McGroob, a mean bastard, by all accounts. 'Wayne' had endured all manner of insults from his neighbour, Anna 'Plop' Mugdooder - a hideous old crone that enjoyed taunting 'Wayne' with her mind numbing prose and literary terrorism.
"Read this 'Wayne'' she would say, thrusting another hideous manuscript into his credulous hands.
But why turn to the tambourine? Surely a few paragraphs would not drive a man to such lengths? Aye, normally so, but 'Wayne' had heard talk, talk that old 'Plop' was nearing completion of an endless sentence; the ultimate weapon, sure to drive 'Wayne to insanity.

- Fling your fruity-fruit into the pit of Tipwell, then and only then will you become a tortoise, reportedly.
- Tape? Ha! Glue them, you fool!
- As for the bucket, who carries the goat? Was it Porky?

To be continued...