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ODD IS GOOD!
ODD IS GOD!
ODD IS THE MEANING OF LIFE!
– roared a purple-robed Jolly Roger from his ruby-embellished crow's-nest.
I strolled through the finger-pointing crowd of knackers and nudgers with my paws dug firmly in my dazzlingly deep pockets, secretly agreeing with he on high. [Jolly Rogers are always right, especially when they sail into port on a pirate galley.]
It was midday, 13:33 exactly, and I was on my way to nowhere in particular. I only knew I had to be there sometime never. My appointment with THE NOBOD OF NOHOW ON was very unimportant, and vital to the future of my v**– to the future of my v**– to my future v**ueness-s-s-s-s.
Still the white feathers fell.
Hopping along an eggshell-encrusted trail with the rosy-cheeked panache of a puddle-sploshing clodder, I happened upon a curious sight: a labyrinthian tunnel system condensed into the maggot-infested cadaver of a half-eaten moggy. I took a superficially deep breath and nose-dived into its gaping wound –
glug
glug
glug
Inside was a major disappointment – major: naught but clammy vermilion walls encircling empty rooms chocka with invisible wordless books as far as the eye couldn’t see. Fah. Twas as pointless as a snapped wishbone. My mystical boots got outta there quicksticks.
And still the white feathers fell.
Later, as I ran my tongue over the plumpness of a toppled statuette on the outskirts of a muddy solitude, a bald cross-eyed tinker skulking in a nearby bush spoke to me:
“You, Harlequin!” he screeched, attempting to mimic a snared hog. “Tell me, does one become who one is by pretending to be who one is not? I often think that what is commonly called 'the real world' is in fact nothing else but an arena of masks wherein every individual is attempting to charm every other into believing that the image of their fabricated self is in truth their real self…”
His skin-melting waffle drifted through one lughole and out the other. A sudden urge reared within me – (do-it, do-it, do-it) – I whipped out my kosh and rapped his shiny pate – THUMP. The nutcase went blotto. I continued on my way with speedy steps, conscious of the fact that the piggy police patrol the skies on backs of wasps.
And still the white feathers floated to earth.
I could tell you about the something-or-other which was in fact nothingness cloaked by smokes and mirrors…
I could tell you about the dwarf's chunky vomit and how a tattooed brute lapped it up using a small boat and a wooden paddle…
I could tell you about Who-who of Who-who Hill, and what he did with a naked sleepwalker…
I could tell so-so much-much more-more, but I won't – and why? – because I've come to the conclusion that you're most probably nothing more than a meddlesome ear-flicker who knows little or nil about the mumbo-jumbo philosophies of advanced twaddle. So skedaddle. Vamoose! The grey insignificant swirl of Scotch Mist awaits your woebegone scrags. Scoot.
ODD IS GOD!
ODD IS THE MEANING OF LIFE!
– roared a purple-robed Jolly Roger from his ruby-embellished crow's-nest.
I strolled through the finger-pointing crowd of knackers and nudgers with my paws dug firmly in my dazzlingly deep pockets, secretly agreeing with he on high. [Jolly Rogers are always right, especially when they sail into port on a pirate galley.]
It was midday, 13:33 exactly, and I was on my way to nowhere in particular. I only knew I had to be there sometime never. My appointment with THE NOBOD OF NOHOW ON was very unimportant, and vital to the future of my v**– to the future of my v**– to my future v**ueness-s-s-s-s.
Still the white feathers fell.
Hopping along an eggshell-encrusted trail with the rosy-cheeked panache of a puddle-sploshing clodder, I happened upon a curious sight: a labyrinthian tunnel system condensed into the maggot-infested cadaver of a half-eaten moggy. I took a superficially deep breath and nose-dived into its gaping wound –
glug
glug
glug
Inside was a major disappointment – major: naught but clammy vermilion walls encircling empty rooms chocka with invisible wordless books as far as the eye couldn’t see. Fah. Twas as pointless as a snapped wishbone. My mystical boots got outta there quicksticks.
And still the white feathers fell.
Later, as I ran my tongue over the plumpness of a toppled statuette on the outskirts of a muddy solitude, a bald cross-eyed tinker skulking in a nearby bush spoke to me:
“You, Harlequin!” he screeched, attempting to mimic a snared hog. “Tell me, does one become who one is by pretending to be who one is not? I often think that what is commonly called 'the real world' is in fact nothing else but an arena of masks wherein every individual is attempting to charm every other into believing that the image of their fabricated self is in truth their real self…”
His skin-melting waffle drifted through one lughole and out the other. A sudden urge reared within me – (do-it, do-it, do-it) – I whipped out my kosh and rapped his shiny pate – THUMP. The nutcase went blotto. I continued on my way with speedy steps, conscious of the fact that the piggy police patrol the skies on backs of wasps.
And still the white feathers floated to earth.
I could tell you about the something-or-other which was in fact nothingness cloaked by smokes and mirrors…
I could tell you about the dwarf's chunky vomit and how a tattooed brute lapped it up using a small boat and a wooden paddle…
I could tell you about Who-who of Who-who Hill, and what he did with a naked sleepwalker…
I could tell so-so much-much more-more, but I won't – and why? – because I've come to the conclusion that you're most probably nothing more than a meddlesome ear-flicker who knows little or nil about the mumbo-jumbo philosophies of advanced twaddle. So skedaddle. Vamoose! The grey insignificant swirl of Scotch Mist awaits your woebegone scrags. Scoot.
Heh, very enjoyable.
Brilliant throughout and had a good little ending too.
Brilliant throughout and had a good little ending too.
It was strange and made my brain hurt. Very enjoyable, but a little too weird!
Me too. I loved it. It used the words 'lughole' and 'scoot' (like muchly) and left me wishing for more.
So, please, please tell me about Who-who of Who-who Hill, and what he did with the naked sleepwalker.
:)
So, please, please tell me about Who-who of Who-who Hill, and what he did with the naked sleepwalker.
:)
I really liked that.
Don't listen to him.
Don't listen to him.
I really disliked that.
That was like nothing but something.
ODD IS GOOD!
ODD IS GOD!
ODD IS THE MEANING OF LIFE!
– roared a purple-robed Jolly Roger from his ruby-embellished crow's-nest.
I strolled through the finger-pointing crowd of knackers and nudgers with my paws dug firmly in my dazzlingly deep pockets, secretly agreeing with he on high. [Jolly Rogers are always right, especially when they sail into port on a pirate galley.]
It was midday, 13:33 exactly, and I was on my way to nowhere in particular. I only knew I had to be there sometime never. My appointment with THE NOBOD OF NOHOW ON was very unimportant, and vital to the future of my v**– to the future of my v**– to my future v**ueness-s-s-s-s.
Still the white feathers fell.
Hopping along an eggshell-encrusted trail with the rosy-cheeked panache of a puddle-sploshing clodder, I happened upon a curious sight: a labyrinthian tunnel system condensed into the maggot-infested cadaver of a half-eaten moggy. I took a superficially deep breath and nose-dived into its gaping wound –
glug
glug
glug
Inside was a major disappointment – major: naught but clammy vermilion walls encircling empty rooms chocka with invisible wordless books as far as the eye couldn’t see. Fah. Twas as pointless as a snapped wishbone. My mystical boots got outta there quicksticks.
And still the white feathers fell.
Later, as I ran my tongue over the plumpness of a toppled statuette on the outskirts of a muddy solitude, a bald cross-eyed tinker skulking in a nearby bush spoke to me:
“You, Harlequin!” he screeched, attempting to mimic a snared hog. “Tell me, does one become who one is by pretending to be who one is not? I often think that what is commonly called 'the real world' is in fact nothing else but an arena of masks wherein every individual is attempting to charm every other into believing that the image of their fabricated self is in truth their real self…”
His skin-melting waffle drifted through one lughole and out the other. A sudden urge reared within me – (do-it, do-it, do-it) – I whipped out my kosh and rapped his shiny pate – THUMP. The nutcase went blotto. I continued on my way with speedy steps, conscious of the fact that the piggy police patrol the skies on backs of wasps.
And still the white feathers floated to earth.
I could tell you about the something-or-other which was in fact nothingness cloaked by smokes and mirrors…
I could tell you about the dwarf's chunky vomit and how a tattooed brute lapped it up using a small boat and a wooden paddle…
I could tell you about Who-who of Who-who Hill, and what he did with a naked sleepwalker…
I could tell so-so much-much more-more, but I won't – and why? – because I've come to the conclusion that you're most probably nothing more than a meddlesome ear-flicker who knows little or nil about the mumbo-jumbo philosophies of advanced twaddle. So skedaddle. Vamoose! The grey insignificant swirl of Scotch Mist awaits your woebegone scrags. Scoot.
ODD IS GOD!
ODD IS THE MEANING OF LIFE!
– roared a purple-robed Jolly Roger from his ruby-embellished crow's-nest.
I strolled through the finger-pointing crowd of knackers and nudgers with my paws dug firmly in my dazzlingly deep pockets, secretly agreeing with he on high. [Jolly Rogers are always right, especially when they sail into port on a pirate galley.]
It was midday, 13:33 exactly, and I was on my way to nowhere in particular. I only knew I had to be there sometime never. My appointment with THE NOBOD OF NOHOW ON was very unimportant, and vital to the future of my v**– to the future of my v**– to my future v**ueness-s-s-s-s.
Still the white feathers fell.
Hopping along an eggshell-encrusted trail with the rosy-cheeked panache of a puddle-sploshing clodder, I happened upon a curious sight: a labyrinthian tunnel system condensed into the maggot-infested cadaver of a half-eaten moggy. I took a superficially deep breath and nose-dived into its gaping wound –
glug
glug
glug
Inside was a major disappointment – major: naught but clammy vermilion walls encircling empty rooms chocka with invisible wordless books as far as the eye couldn’t see. Fah. Twas as pointless as a snapped wishbone. My mystical boots got outta there quicksticks.
And still the white feathers fell.
Later, as I ran my tongue over the plumpness of a toppled statuette on the outskirts of a muddy solitude, a bald cross-eyed tinker skulking in a nearby bush spoke to me:
“You, Harlequin!” he screeched, attempting to mimic a snared hog. “Tell me, does one become who one is by pretending to be who one is not? I often think that what is commonly called 'the real world' is in fact nothing else but an arena of masks wherein every individual is attempting to charm every other into believing that the image of their fabricated self is in truth their real self…”
His skin-melting waffle drifted through one lughole and out the other. A sudden urge reared within me – (do-it, do-it, do-it) – I whipped out my kosh and rapped his shiny pate – THUMP. The nutcase went blotto. I continued on my way with speedy steps, conscious of the fact that the piggy police patrol the skies on backs of wasps.
And still the white feathers floated to earth.
I could tell you about the something-or-other which was in fact nothingness cloaked by smokes and mirrors…
I could tell you about the dwarf's chunky vomit and how a tattooed brute lapped it up using a small boat and a wooden paddle…
I could tell you about Who-who of Who-who Hill, and what he did with a naked sleepwalker…
I could tell so-so much-much more-more, but I won't – and why? – because I've come to the conclusion that you're most probably nothing more than a meddlesome ear-flicker who knows little or nil about the mumbo-jumbo philosophies of advanced twaddle. So skedaddle. Vamoose! The grey insignificant swirl of Scotch Mist awaits your woebegone scrags. Scoot.