Hardhat Macadamia tore with muscles when he walked down the construction site; but stopped when he saw a wrist prone, the rest o’ its owner under a girder. ‘Cause Macadamia was such an upleft citizen, he used his miraculous muscles to lift the girder off the poor fellow.

But when he looked back down, he saw the fellow’d vanished.

He swung his head round till he heard a voice call from ‘bove, “Oy. ¿What’s the meaning?”

He looked up & saw the wrist waving up & down.

“¿Why you pickin’ me up by my shell in the middle o’ my nap, mate?”

She’d experienced many trying trials in her long career as a flag capturer—but ne’er as trying as the 1 she ran into on her way down the milky hills with the white flag.

With rusty squeaks, the semicircled smashers pushed in & out, preparing to smash her into nothing but an afterthought.

She stood with her feet planted apart just before them, waited the nanosecond they started to stretch ’way, & then zoomed through.

She had just ’nough time to feel the wind blow gainst her back as they smashed ’hind her.

& that was when she saw the next obstacle: the square smashers…

Cars rule everything around me…
But all I need to do to get them off my torso
Is sneak through the alleys
Saturated with cottage cheese pits
& find the Encyclopedia Commedia.
From there I can tell them jokes so stoked
It’ll make them wet their exhausts with laughter,
While I make my ’scape.
But when I found it
& turned its dusty pages,
I discovered they were all blank.
I laughed heartily @ what was the greatest joke ever.
When the cars peered in to ask why,
I repeated the joke.
Then they drove me into a bloody mess.
“I hate meta humor,” 1 o’ them grumbled.

The toupees sat opposite each other @ the round table.

“Well, I don’t know whether randomly stabbing orphaned children is good or not, ’cause I don’t like being partisan like some people,” said the brown hairpiece.

“Well, I’m so nonpartisan that I don’t e’en judge whether random stabbings e’er happen or not,” said the blond cut.

“Well, I’m so nonpartisan that I don’t e’en judge whether knives exist or not!”
The blond toupee pulled out a knife & thrust it into the brown.

“O my god, ¿what’ve I done?” exclaimed the blond. “I can’t just kill an up-winger without killing a downist, too; that’d be biased.”

So it stabbed itself to death.

¿Who are you to wave your finger?
Like a pendulum:
Knocking, clocking gainst the pan & pot;
Twisting on ovens & stoves to boil them hot;
Clicking your million tiny feet gainst the linoleum.
I see you nowhere,
But I know you’re everywhere,
‘Cause I hear you everywhere.
¿Who are you to judge me in my own kitchen?
Sneaking through my pantry door,
Eating all o’ my stores,
Leaving your serum all ‘long my floor.
¿Who are you to infest me in my own kitchen,
Invading my veins, intruding on my every pore?
Quoth the papa roach:
“Not anymo’.”

I told you he’d lead to our destruction.

You didn’t believe me—but I was right.

I saw him sitting there waiting, his 40 eyes staring down @ us with his tusked maw wide open, ready to devour the cereal o’ our city in 1 megatomic crunch, our milky blood dribbling down his fuzzy chin. I told you all—but you didn’t listen, & now we’re all dead.

O, sure: blame the messenger.

It doesn’t matter whether ’twas the monster or the nukes I sent all o’er the world that obliterated the human race.

The point is, I was right.

There was only 1 way Loney would be able to enter the puffy, milky-white thought cloud rising from Kip’s noggin:

He’d have to dance.

So he spun his legs round like tank treads & popped his head up & down like a Wiffle ball.

Suddenly, he found himself spinning in the air & shrinking as he was sucked into Kip’s thought balloon as if in a tractor beam.

Once inside, he put his hands to his mouths & announced:

“¡Kip! Your lima beans are ready. For god’s sake, ¡eat them ‘fore they get cold, man!”

There’s no place like home… there’s no place like home… he thought as he stood on that stage before thousands, his face smeared all over with purple lipstick as if he had to do it without a mirror—which he did.

“Sing, my pretty—¡sing!” the cackling cackler cackled.

So he opened his mouth & bellowed, his tone gradually rising in pitch till it became distorted.

Suddenly, billows o’ smoke ‘scaped his mouth & transformed into ghosts.

Excellent… excellent… the cackler thought.

The ghosts surrounded the cackler & devoured her.

That was how her suicide note ended.

Madame Onion Face charged down the Sunny-D-colored streets. She was a vegetable on a mission.

A race car neared, controlled by the brown tendrils latching onto it like an octopus. They smacked gainst each other; but Onion Face was much too strong, & the other car was knocked off the highway, smacking the gray fur patch below.

She felt the road dive downward & her heart sang when she reached the bottom—only to notice ’twas an inch ‘way from the same highway’s entrance, just like the last dozen times she traversed that orange track, which she would continue to do, in the hopes o’ eventually ‘scaping this cyclic nightmare.

Antoine had to admit, he was suspicious his 1st day @ university. This started when his professors instructed them to roll round in cocktail sauce—ruining his best suit—& smack themselves with sticks—which definitely didn’t fall within the standards o’ professional conduct.

That was when the forks began to descend—& what d’you know, ¡Antoine was the 1st to be picked up! As the fork pulled him up to the gaping maw o’ its fleshy monster, Antoine sighed. I can just imagine the taunts my fellow students will give me. Being chewed to bits is so embarrassing.