"Look,  I've been locked in a Maytag for the past three years,
eating nothing but a squishy mixture of caviar and stale urine
through a straw.  Why was I locked in the fridge?  Actually it was
a dishwasher.  The eel skin lining was magical.  Yes, they use
eel skin in dishwashers.  You reporters lead such sheltered
lives.  NO, I don't want to see the scars you have from when you
were impaled by a Zulu spear.  Probably just tried to kill
yourself with a hello-kitty pencil.  Anyway, the magical eel skin
is the only thing capable of repressing my cosmic psychic powers.
You see, I was walking down the street one day, and tripped.  My
concentration was broken and I accidentally turned the lamp post
in front of me into a squid, and blasted the souls of a small
population of smurfs.  Broke their minds into lots of pieces and
spread them all over their bodies.  Well, yes, kind of like
crunchy peanut butter.  Their toes started arguing with each
other.  They locked me in this dish-washer as punishment."  Just
then, the whale ate the TV with the stupid documentary and dove
into the pot of foetus soup.  "Don't put jell-o on my toenails!"
yelled the greek god of hemmorhoid abolition.  "It's very
therapeutic."  "I don't care.  It clashes with the giant
grasshopper hanging from my nose."  "That's not very
therapeutic." "No, it's stylish."  Meanwhile, the whale managed
to get the dishwasher stuck in his blowhole.  Weighed down by the
500 bibles he bought from the jehovah's witness, he slowly sank
to the bottom of the pot, occasionally smacking against the
wooden spoon that was slowly stirring the mixture.  The spoon
suddenly stopped when the reporter, trying out a new career path,
got a sliver.  "Nurse!  Nurse!  I just shot myself in the chest
and ruptured my aorta.  Can I have a bandaid?"  "Certainly." "This
isn't a batman bandaid.  I wanna batman bandaid."  "Don't give me
any lip, you little broccoli faeces!  I'll lock you in a
dishwasher if you don't watch out."  "No.  My toe hurts."  "Oh.
I see.  Tell you what, I'll hit you over the head with a sledge
hammer.  S'very therapeutic."  "How much will it cost me?"
"Nothing.  Except your socks."  "Deal."  The whale was now, at
this point, decidedly blue.  The eiffel tower is being painted by
an elite crew of termites.  It's a devilishly clever plan to
reduce the Canadian deficit.  We'd tell you how it works, but
that information is unavailable to the public right now.  He
stepped out of the theatre.  "What a bizarre movie," he thought
to himself.  "That kid with the ruptured heart, though.  Far too
graphic.  Gratuitous.  Owell, it was a matinee.  Only 4$."  He
stepped off the curb and headed towards the bus stop, slipping in
a puddle of unsolidified jell-o in the middle of the road.  He
cartwheeled through the air, and smacked his nose on the ground.
A group of MSF (Maytag special forces) converged on him wielding
large bottles of drain-o. "OK, cockroach.  In the fridge.  NOW!"
"That's not a fridge, that's a dishwasher."  "You think you're
tough stuff, huh?  Any more smart remarks and we'll throw fish
bits at you in the buff."  "Wow, I read about that in Dr. Fred's
hillbilly cures.  It's very therapeutic." "That's it!  I've had
just about enough of you!  GET IN THE GODDAMNED FRIDGE!"
"Dishwasher."  A large, recently animated, recently horked,
hairball appeared (probably realizing that the dialogue was going
downhill,) stuffed mister we-don't-know-his-name-yet into the
dishwasher, taped the crack regiment of maytag repairmen naked to
a tree, and covered them in catnip.  Three days later, they died
of a thousand cuts.  Sort of like if they had rolled around in a
big vat of razors and dental floss.  "That's disgusting!"  "What
do you mean? Besides, you're the one eating chocolate covered
goat testicles." "They're an eastern delicacy."  "Even so, you have no
right calling that (point vaguely in north southerly direction)
disgusting."  "They're very therapeutic.  And besides, it's not like
they're raw.  They're deep-fried in all natural animal shortening."
"You mean lard.  Disgusting."  "Actually, it's smegma."  "Right!"
yelled the purple whale.  "I've had just about enough of this
regurgitated literary crap!" and he squished everything under his tail.
Hey look, my eyeball has finger holes!  That's so smurfs can bowl with
them, you know.  Look at that.  Some guy is trying to suck his brains
out with a shop-vac.  Pop! There goes his eyeball.  Get it!  run run run
rum...  Out of the way!  The eye is mine!  Touch it and die!  I'm having
a bowling tournament tomorrow.  Shutup you pervert.  "Do you have a
licence?"  "A licence, for what?"  "For prescribing bestiality as a cure
for jello-intoxication.  S'very therapeutic."  "No, I'm a bowler."
"Very well, do you have a licence for bowling with human body parts?"
"I have a learner's, will that do?"  "It expired three days ago.  Sorry,
I'm going to have to take you in."  The typewriter disguised as a police
man was just then struck by lightning.  Twice.  He exploded, turning
into a pink cloud.  It rained centipedes for three days after.  "Oh dear
god, you broke my dentures!"  The soloist continued.  Her hands dancing,
gracefully, up and down the ivory keys.  The beautiful melodies flowing
throughout the room.  "Excuse me miss, my name is DCI Penniston,
scotland yard.  We believe there to be a dead body in your piano."  "Oh,
I don't think so.  I would have heard a difference if there were,"
replied the soloist.  "I'm not dead..." a feeble voice echoed from
within the piano.  The officer accompanying DCI Penniston drew his
revolver and fired five shots into the piano.  "Once again, miss
Doolittle, we believe there to be a dead body in your piano.  Would you
mind answering a few questions for us?"  repeated Penniston soberly.
"I... I..." stuttered the soloist.  "Mr. Webb," Penniston addressed the
officer, "will you please look inside the piano."  The officer lifted
the lid and looked in.  "Dear mother of mary of jesus of god.  Look at
all the blood.  It's horrendous, sir."  "Ms. Doolittle," Penniston
turned back to the soloist.  "You are under arrest for the foul and
despicable murder of one Mr... uh... Fred, the confusion of a police
officer, and mail fraud.  Officer Webb, will you please cuff Ms.
Doolittle and escort her to the station, I think I spotted somebody
serving danishes over there."  Screams of agony and confession
penetrated the thick wooden door marked interrogation room.  "What's
going on in there?"  "A man is confessing to his crime.  We arrested him
because he didn't have a licence.  He denied everything, naturally.
That completely confounded us, so we called in a specialist.  He brought
a brief case full of metallic centipes.The gs sowly ea the
cminal.  Some working on the skin, some entering orifices and working
from the inside out.  Often quite effective.  100% success rate,
actually.  The jokes on them, though.  It doesn't really matter if they
confess or not because we have no way of controlling the insects.  The
fact that they do confess just makes the paperwork easier.  I truly love
my job.  Danish?"  "No thanks.  I'm not too fond of raspberry.  Do you
have a blueberry?"  "Mmm..." he mumbled around a mouthful of danish.
"Check my pocket."  "Oh, here we go.  Luverly."  "Well, here's your
interrogation room.  Have fun."  "Thanks.  And thanks for the pastry."
"Don't mention it."

Whales are big animals, insects in fact (not, as common belief
now holds, mammals,) and as whales go, this was a big one.  Rht
huge.  In fact, it was big enough to swallow an entire police
station.  This particular whale, as a matter of fact, did just
that.  Telephones and all.  Economically, a disaster for the
police force, although it was good for public relations (nobody's
quite figured out why, though.)  Now, being eaten by a whale, by
any stretch of the imagination, is not a pleasant experience.
But some survivors, found in a large whale stool atop the eiffel
tower, reported that there were some interesting tourist traps in
the bowels of a whale, or at least, in the bowels of this whale.
Yodelling schools, glue factories, even a Club Med.  Most marine
biologists tend to agree that this is a mighty strange discovery,
upsetting all previous theories concerning whales.  Elvis A. P.
Mookahavian, representing an insidious organization of fringe
biologists, claims to have known of the existence of these
structures since the early 60s.  Reports have been circulating
that he is in fact a fraud, and not to be trusted.  Likely just
trying to take advantage of the whale incident, and the slump in
american television media after Orange Juice Simpson completely
ate himself.  Yesterday, a skepticle janitor was heard yelling at
a monkey wrench that these tourist traps were probably just
hallucinations brought about by spending three nights in a whale
stool atop a famous landmark, and suggested dissecting the whale
in question.   Nobody was able to do any sort of tests on the
whale, however, for shortly after taking the much publicized
"dump of mercy" on top of france's largest phallic symbol, it
sprouted a pair of wings and flew off in the direction of pluto,
a fact that the janitor carelessly overlooked.


SAUCE00Crap                               Merlyn              Independant         19950301¦$
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