o hright, I forgot, I never concluded the story.
Uh… where was I? Ah to heck with it I’ll start from the beginning of the second act somewhere in the middle.
So the depressed toilet fairy asks the poached egg, “Why do you wear so much coral blue #72 gloss lipstick on your eyelashes?” and the cornucopia devours it whole. Good riddance, that thing was horrible. Dr. Profanahan the burnt shoe magician dials to tell her wife about the incident, only to find that her red dialup telephone had mysteriously convulsed into growing shoes and ran off with the extension. “What a horrible fate,” she said, possibly tripping on some heavily basic water or a detached string of sock laces, before sitting down on the diagonally cucumber seahorse that really shouldn’t be there right now on account of being wanted in seventeen states of matter for facilitating black market apricot offshore trade deals. “We haven’t gotten any bit closer to finding that egg salad sandwich…”
TO BE CONTINUED?
