This is what happens when Dylan and Ruth get drunk and write paragraphs.
My head is made of exploding Moonfruit and a large selection of Metaphorically Nommable Frrrench Blue Lobster Puffs. As such it is important that you dress accordingly and use the correct door. As to whether or not Ford was actually a lemon, and the lake which thought it was a large gin and tonic, which he found to bop up and down in, was actually a large gin and tonic, is completely irrelevent, and furthermore besides the point. I went to work today. OR perhaps I did not. It is unclear, or possibly merely hazy... the sort of haze that comes to be about when one's neighbour continues to burn his/hers/its/colin's poorly-lit fire in the icey ravages of high summer time heat waves. Yes. Hazy, like a large operatic panda moving in for the Ukelali of Ultimate and Inescapable Fork. I mean really, there comes a time in one's life when they are forced to take a look at themselves, and wonder what the fuck happened to their shoes. This is a state which is exponentially congruent with alcohol of a champagnish nature and the music of Bob Marley - specifically the third song next to the toaster in the second cupboard from the left. The hollow is escaping into the night time reverie of a South American Dodo-Lizard... and it isn't enjoying the party if you savvy my meaning. Not at all. This means that there will be a death match between the Penguins of Isengard and Pumpkin from Memoirs of a Geisha. Ben Elton will bring the chips, Douglas Adams sends his regards, but unfortunately has zipped off to play Brockian Ultra Cricket in the fifth dimension with the pan dimensional battle mice. Aha, lucky wombat, missed my toe... butchered an anthill with a hypercardigan it did, true tale, i saw it with my own magnified-glass-aided-optical-sensory-organs, or perhaps I didnt. But I think I did. Or at least I want you to think that I did. Or that I want you to think that I want you to think that I did, when really, I didnt. Nuff said? My chair is being very mean to my carpet, SHUTUP I hear your hurrs but no I will not buy your cheese. Jarslberg is the evilist of the unmoosey evil cheeses. The Silence of the Yams continues: canibalisic (or is it kabbalahistic) fruit, eating their way through the city of Fruitopolis. Until is becomes either Necropolis or Monarchopolis... I wonder what would happen if you attacked someone with a wireless toaster? I wonder what a wireless toaster would taste like? Would there be jam? I think that the possibility of there being jam corresponds with the possibility of 2 + 2 = 5 ... in an alternate universe where 2 + 2 = 5. Therefore... ketchup. This all reminds me of a rather funny story actually ........................................................... "So after a hectic week of believing that war was peace, that good was bad, that the moon was made of blue cheese, and that God needed a lot of money sent to a certain box number, the Monk started to believe that thirty-five percent of all tables were hermaphrodites, and then broke down." Said the nun to the child. The king ordered that all the Pigs were to be given proper be given proper beds to sleep in and the cows were to be Knighted. Then cooked in curries. Made out of apricot jam and other such concoctions.There was a point to this story but it has temporarily escaped the chroniclers mind.