When the news of the world becomes as stressful as a large bowl of salmon scales, I often begin to reminisce about the good old days when lutefisk was worn casually in the shape of a man’s oversized basketball hamper while small, decorative houseflies jump though hoops of blazing oatmeal during halftime at the “Sniff Your Dog’s Crayons” Festival; which is held every 10th Sunday of Jangulary in the beautifully snail infested vegetable drawer of Nyvack, New Applesander.
This of course has nothing to do with messages like:
“I believe I’ll resume sleeping in moist ditches again soon.” Or
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your windshield wipers for a couple months.”
And of course:
“Now that I’ve reached Mt. Agnes, my next journey will involve training my hair to light up during times of Zombie Invasions.”
All of these communications will be delivered to your screens long before you are able to discern the value of large piles of rusted pine trees. Please don’t attempt to erase this long standing lard hopper entertainment removal procedure. You’ll only end up with way too many roasted pick whistle shavings.
Speaking of whistle spray, I’m hereby reminded of a true (and probably completely false) recounting of our dear Grand Leaf Handler:
Long ago in Grandfather’s beard, a small squid died and stunk for days. All the village Elders offered him fire to drink and hid his remote control. Little children crawled up to see him and chewed off his toes. His own family sent for the Magic Bowl. They filled it with bird runch and mixed in pork, crayon shavings and geek fat. The ceremony began with the first three episodes of “Gilligan’s Island”; and when Grandfather started lusting for Mrs. Howell they fed him the Modongo. Very soon Grandfather blortled and fipped. He asked “What kind of bird runch are you feeding me today? Anyhow?” His family laughed at the snackwonder: “OH! AH! HOO!”, they bribbled. And that is how this Hay-Wy-Ann Island got its name.
Therefore my friends, dwell not on the nonsensical. Please do not try to extract any logical explanation for silly text that has no rhythm or sense of smelt. Additionally, remember that silliness is not at all similar to boiling marbles in chocolate powder. Lord knows only bicycles can endure that type of topical storm.
Thank you, and may all your blessings fly paper airplanes during important salamander conferences.
Yours In Deep Sleep,
Melbert “Whippy” Goatfinder
And now for the REAL taste test that was delivered many years ago in a dream I’d like to remember while grocery shopping. Beware: lots of slapstick in this one.