Very well then. I shall continue the story.
“Wait! That’s it!” she cried. Despite the beheaded telephone and cable sprouting wings and flying away with the Profanahan hand that was being used to hold it up to her proboscis, he had not given up. “It is time to call Garb Goodotter.” So she picked up the deceased remains of the red dialup telephone’s abandoned seed coat, growing it into a new pregnant telephone booth with a recipe of 17 parts water 92 parts aluminum 75 parts sunshine 1 part salt and 50 parts shake and pray. It crushed her arm instantly. “Drats”, he said, as she sprung out of the floor. “It’s bigger on the outside than it is on the inside,” remarked her efface.
The cornucopia hobbled onto her unibrow and dialed the extension. “Eh, you got a coin, mademoiselle?” He did not. “I’ll have to utilize your prefrontal ear lobe then.” It sawed it in half, using the ouija board. “All in a day’s work”, it gasped, gargling the toilet fairy as it attempted to dissolve in its butter and apple sauce to no prevail. After whacking it on the Profanahan mohawk, it started to ring. “Garb. I have some bad news. The egg has departed from the salad and the sandwich, and it has grown fond of lip gloss.” This was horrible. This was indeed very horrible
“That’s impossible!” Garb muttered, spilling bread mayonnaise hard boiled egg mustard relish salt pepper and a dash of secret ingredient across the remains of the shattered window sill. “How could this happen? Who did this?” That was an excellent question. Who would be intelligent enough to pull off such a magnificent and horrible feat? In unison they muttered, “Realize…”
