When the sunflower-seed pot is consumed by the pencil sharpener, the mops will fail to show up for their daily allotment of warm socks made with both love and broken CD jewel cases, but only if the hairy drunken Texans in speedo bikinis agree to settle their differences in a fight to the porcelain god whilst mudwrestling off the top of the banana, which is, of course, attached to the erasers which like to eat all the lettuce at night, unless small coins jump sideways into their pants.

But alas, the cactus has no system errors.

Intricately-infected soda cans are dancing with Wilbur, the coffee entrail god, but merely because waxen jewelry has no place on the fuzzy, or the speakerphone. In case of religious enthusiasts, give the swordfish thirty-eight trash baskets and stand back for the explosion, for the cans of great perplexity and evil shall smother everyone in their sleep unless the hair bracelet is found to be a brilliant desk lamp.

Given a kilo of lint cabbage, and a piece of jerkified aluminum toe, the undercurrent of the window screen will find a light in the freezer at precisely three-forty-six A.M. if the sun has danced the tango with several brand-name corporate scams and ended up painted for the trouble. But if they did not end up painted for the trouble, they will soon discover that intelligent incoherence is possible in the minds of great papayas and many other lesser fruity patooties if the demands for a hostage in sub-zero shag carpet is met before the penguins deign to explode with much vigor and intensity, then hire interns to do it for them.

However, the elephants must scream about the injustices of the many angry and violent pineapples only after the large dragon dances drunkenly around, and then completes a twenty-four line poem of intense alliteration, unless the furry of the sockness likes to jump off tall buildings that eat spongey packaging foam with mustard. Again, these accepted acolytes into the church of Nim must recall that only the omnipresent forty-one-year-old telemarketer whose jeans are too tight must go to therapy every week or risk delousing his chairs by accident, and then run down the street screaming about coconut hentai.

And even though the plastic strips of canine crating do not understand the higher thinking of dusty stereos with necklaces hanging off their metallic goodness, the tapioca cries for justice to be done to the great misnomer that has been placed upon it unwillingly by small, ravenous gas molecules designed for the sole purpose to cause headaches. Soon there must be a battle between the many keyboards so that their cleaners will not stop to unwrap short mages, unlike the elusive coral reef juvenile TV programmer.

I did not tattoo my leg with the toaster.

**Unfortunately, the writer of this was not stoned or drunk at the time. Run for your sanity.**