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"One must always keep separate the coconut and the paper clip," said the carrot tree.

the pizard

"Hawaiian tourists are frightened of coconuts that have odd-numbered eyes."

Tipping his hat respectfully at the carrot tree, Paul went on his way. He was late for band practice, and the sun was setting faster than usual.


The long shadows obscured an object nestled neatly in the grass. That is, until his feet met it and sent him sprawling. His tuba went flying (at least, it felt like flying, to the tuba).


"But we want to be together!" screamed the coconut and the paper clip in unison. "We're in love," added the paper clip as it ran its tines through the coconut's hair and made doe eyes... as much as it's possible for a paper clip to make doe eyes, that is.


An unnoticed explodophone tumbled punctually out of the dark woods onto the dirt road alongside. It scanned Paul's brainwaves, read them incorrectly, and started playing The Exploding Blue Danube, using bamboo dust as a substitute for gunpowder. It sounded like an angry bowl of rice krispies being played with a bow. This got the tuba's attention.


The tuba (whose name was most definitely not Timmy)hovered, chortling in a basso profundo sort of way at a lofty height of approximately thirty feet as all hell broke loose on the ground below. Paul yelped in consternation, dodging shrapnel and fire in frenetic waltz time. Sitting on a nearby rock, a Community Theatre Satan woefully adjusted his horns.


The sunlight was dancing on my mother's face as she had homocidal dreams on the living room love seat. My eyes were itchy and I was noting how my pastel blue and purple striped sock was draped over the blue play-doh Kat supplied me with, when all of a sudden there was a big BOOM that made several lightbulbs and paperclips explode. The tuba sucked his thumb, nestled in the corner.


"What's wrong with Carl? He dosn't look variegated enough." a group of neatly folded socks-without-matches wondered. The hedonistic garment subculture had little regard for seperated footwear and routinely cast away color from those so unfortunate peices of fabric. A tuba shapped thought materialized outside and began to explain what the texture of an idea would be like. Meanwhile, Paul Stammerwitz gawked in bewilderment managing only to fidget oddly and unsynchronize his eyes from blinking at the same time.


Sleepy Yummy Devil poked his tattered head from behind the curtain. He had sat there for years now, gathering dust and the will to move. The sounds from beyond the drapery had had a lulling sameness until today. The sun shown hot and red through the window, moving shadows up the sill, marking early afternoon on the upper-left corner pane. Now the glass began to vibrate then rumble then shake. Sleepy Yummy feared that the window would shatter atop his head. As the glass began to describe webs and shards, he heard plainly the great noise--it sounded as if the vacuum of space itself was playing every tuba in the world; and indeed, the glass did not fall in, but was sucked out along with: 99.5 pair of pastel-blue socks, a coconut, a few paperclips, and a love seat occupied by a sleeping mother--snorting, grinning, dreaming dreams of sweet murder.


"Time to go to work, little one." The Community Theatre Satan peered in through the shattered remains of the window and grinned at Sleepy Yummy Devil.

"Work?" moaned Sleepy Yummy. "I was just starting to fall asleep..."

"Later, my friend." said Community Theatre Satan, pressing his wayward crepe goatee back into place with a dab of hastily applied spirit gum, and grabbing Sleepy Yummy by the scruff of the neck. "Things to do, people to see, souls to eat."


Sleepy Yummy hesitated for a moment, especially when Community Theatre Satan requested that he climb the carrot tree and speak to the carrots. Carrot said to Sleepy Yummy "Do donkies narfle the gooberfish?"

Surely Sleepy Yummy had heard wrong, so he asked "Beg pardon?"

"Sproink?" returned the carrot.

Well, this would never do thought Sleepy Yummy, so he grasped the carrot and pulled it free from it's tethers, and put the long pointy end up his nose.

surely, this would silence the impudious carrot.

Oh, but it was not to be so, because we all know carrots speak from the broad end. "Your friend there, he knows the magic, the gate to all things slendifirous"

This was the last straw for Mr. Yummy, as he pulled out a small square of paper and divided it, one for himself and one for the carrot. Of course we must always share. Lotus Sweet Dreams.

Further down the rabbit hole, Our friend Sleepy Yummy traveled.


"Speaking of holes" Sleepy Yummy whined to himself. "I should go Rambo on these monkey fools." With that Sleepy Yummy pulled out a custom made, chromed out, AK-47, which he had set a side for just such a mission. After the obligitory "gearing-up" montage ending with the bandana knot being tightened at the back of his head, Sleppy Yummy made his way down to the Food Town to "pull a 2-2-6 on 'em G."

Big Frog

"What is this?" Sleepy yummy Devil thought to himself, "an AK-47 in my hand?" He let fall the bulky assault rifle and wondered what had come over him. Why had he gone off on this elaborate tangent: donning a bandana, carrying a ridiculously dangerous and shiney rifle, and talking smack like a gangsta rapper in the latest cops-versus-drug-dealers movie? He ripped the tattered fatigues from his body and slipped back into his little yellow vest which had suited his fashion purposes all these years. He thought of the curtain behind which he sat in catatonic bliss until the window-sucking incident. He longed to sit once again among the mossy dust that gathered on his idle form, and to feel the drapery now and again brush against his fading red nose. These things he would never know again. What were the motives of Community Theater Satan? Why had he led him up the carrot tree? Sleepy thought of the earlier exchange between him and the plucked carrot which lay now in a field of purple razor grass. Language barrier aside, he had felt the carrot a part of him, and pulling it from the ground, he gently re-inserted it into his left nostril where it fit as if it were meant to be there. He could feel its orange-ness, its brilliant beta-carotine glow and its warm satisfaction as it nibbled at the half piece of paper. Sleepy was startled by the voice of Community Theater Satan. "There you are, junior! You are fitting nicely into your new position. Now you must always walk opposite the wind on the very tips of your toes, following the carrot oracle to the temple of Paul. Speak naught of my chin-toupe or the waning public interest in community theater. Now Go!"


"For I am the psychedelic playboy!"

The Great Morty

Up until now, I bet you're thinking that I'm a nice guy.

Listen: I'm not.

I really am not nice. I really am not.

I once peeled off the eyelids of a man working behind the counter at Wal Mart.



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