oddities of time and space

Volume 2

by SLAM[CD-CoS] and Christofori

(The IRC Version of this story is also available.)

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In such a way are these stories made that the process could confuse even the most voluptuous of African Giraffes; and also are they so intricate that their sum could equal the whole of an apple pie; or at the very least, a small slice of shrubbery.

Be that as it may, the whole of the discussion really lies, moreover, on the size of The Love Machine of Doom. Once again, it returns under the power of audible thrusters that shatter the continuum of time and space, and bring reconciliation to the lovely green fields of hay (which are not yet ripe). These fields are covered with fresh dew, and as such, are completely unprepared for what happens next.

This, of course, is completely irrelevant, because of the quizzical nature of the flying saucers and silverware in the depths of the sky as their cruel owners gaze at the heights beneath the ocean, and whiz past the distant hills, rapidly stroking the monkey's long and matted hair.

Such things are, indeed, obscure by nature; however, they still do actually serve a common purpose, which happens to be the asexual reproduction of important legal documents, whose sole purpose is to rid the world of nicotine and the RIAA

Of course this could never be feasible without the blessing of BARRY, who seldom comes to the aid of monkeys in need. At least, not anymore. Following the incident with the Jack of Spades and the mummy of Aiduklerny, BARRY soon found that he would rather spend his time teasing the the many loyal kings and subjects of his kingdoms, which stretch as far as the eye can see, and beyond, so that the merry residents of the jungle have clashing, cascading music by which they can entertain their mothers while they host Tupperware parties.

Such a thing, while once considered a popular fad in many locales, is becoming more and more of a rarity; much like the random jitteriness received by the North American Swallow as it struggles to carry a coconut from point A to point B at the whim of its new legal authority at FedEx, Which Doth 0wn The World, much to the objection of the Unladen Swallow Association (r)(tm)(c), which denies any and all connection to the trivial nature of the RIAA and any subsidiaries thereof.

Such connections, while wild to the naked eye, often become much more clear under the 'magnifying glass' that is the discerning eye of the Average Consumer, which wishes only to hear some quality sounds over their rapidly communicating ports that sound as though they might be speaking a french version of pig-latin to convey the whimsical knowledge of the Uncommon Ancients that was gained in such a fashion as to sicken the dogs of the sea, the seahorses themselves.

Yes, these odd and arguably backward-sexed organisms feed off of the common items that float from the sky and land on the tree tops of muscular, eye-dropper toating gorillas eating yellow grapes and purple bananas. The peels of the grapes fall to the ground, only to be consumed by the Horrifying Omnivorous Kites, a swooping, sailing, slithering snake of an aircraft, which has only the strength to gather its food from the ground before taking off once again into the WILD-BLUE-YONDER, which is, of course, an acronym that stands for 'Wandering Idiots of Lima Delta Book Lovers Under Earth Yardarm Overhand Not-Dead-Enough Reserves.

The WILD-BLUE-YONDER organization, which shan't be confused with INIQUITY (Indian Nonsense Involving Queens, Unions, Idiots, Thieves, and Yiddish folk), takes it's business very seriously. Such business, usually conducted only under strict and utter secrecy, often occurs in the wee hours of the morning, the time that most intelligent people who would notice such activities and take the appropriate action are holed up in their homes chatting online, and procuring food that powers and eases the passage of the dark matter from point A to point B in the thermonuclear reactor of all IT-based bots, which are currently in service on the Coast Guard Cutter "Valiant," a ship nearing 40 years of age, deteriorating slowly under the watchful idiocy of its nobly ignorant crew which happily accomplish their mission with equipment from the pages of bad '50s Science Fiction, a myth which the wizards of the coast have yet to dispel due to the aging mythos surrounding such things. Besides, who has time to think of the ramifications of massive system upgrades, not to mention hull reinforcements and.. dare we say, or even THINK it.. crew "upgrades?"

No, I think we dare not go there at this time. Such frivolous thought would certainly require loads of moolah, not to mention the presence of the huge balls of an unknown substance to drop their birthplace for at least 23 minutes, and wiggle and jiggle in a floating manner for a similar passing of time. Yes, such resources and events coming together in the correct time and place are hardly unlikely. Almost unlikely, in fact, as the infinite failure of the Love Machine of Doom. Such a failure is not possible, of course; so fear not, daft citizens. The Love Machine of Doom will live on forever and ever (Amen)!

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The End...
...at least so long as we have an uninterrupted supply of viagra spam mail.
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