Overexposure to Notes of Nonsense Equals Thaumaturgy

If one were to take it for granted that green trees are the only source of forgotten fruit in an age of neanderthals, then one must also except the fact that little dogs like to play in swimming pools run by portly fellows in green hats.

But why?

Because of the overabundance of spaceships that have been sighted on the eastern shores of the western mountains. Read on to know more.

Nonsense

That is exactly what you are reading. Why? To see if it gets published.

The story continues

Sometimes there are random eventualities that must not be included in the countdown to the days when cats will rule all the cheese houses. Until that time, however, each of us must be on our guard against giant frogs that could eat all our beer and steal all our big trucks.

If that were to happen, it would be ghastly. If it does not happen, then all of us will live as long as the flowers in the governor’s hotel room. Or will we?

The first king of that country over there used to like green rooms, but nowadays he prefers his chocolate milk with caviar and lots of cans of oysters. His wife likes to send little boys shopping for cars that are spray-painted in black. Their kids are much the same, cutting into cake with dull butter sticks that would better be used as prods against the cattle in the Pentagon.

Where does it end?

It does not. In fact, it goes on for all of infinity. If the kessel run could be made faster with a vacuum cleaner, then why could it not also be said that Homer did not write the first chapter of Swish Pilot, but that indeed it was his host in Naples who did so?

Does this make sense? No? Good. It’s not supposed to.

The end, at last

Where does this leave the state of the world in the 1920s? Beneath a factory made of cotton balls, that’s where.

One should try to read the last words of the fellow sitting on the bench, but if he is not available then his cousin surely will be. If that person is not available, then we can all go out for ice cream later tonight. My favorite ice cream is not chocolate, but I bet yours is something sorry like Butter Pecan. But maybe you are more of a lightning rod kind of person.

Who knows? The catfish? The pope? The laundry woman? Probably all of them, including the golfer who sleeps in the window pane that has been inhabited by nincompoops.

Please read no further. This is the end of this experiment. You may curse me now.