Boards
My day
So, I got on a plane to Corpus Christi, Texas and was accosted by a group of adolescent ducks. The largest of the group, a male called 'Whale' told me that if I didn't open the doors and jump into the Atlantic Ocean, he'd use his secret ray gun to destroy my face in a duck-based assassination. Depressing as this was, I whipped out my 7-inch love-rod, which was to all intents and purposes, a mop that cats use and thrust it into his beak.
Before I could even say 'colossal histerectomy' a man flew past in a wagon full of bands and a garage and threw his neck at me. Obviously, he missed, mistaking the windows of the plane for open gashes in the side of a holed steel spear. He telephoned me on my radio, so I picked up my satellite communication flange and spoke to him via telegram (not ideal in mid-air, for obvious e-coli-related reasoning, but the pilot was happy for us to converse in this fashion). My initial message read as follows:
.-. .---.-. .-.- -.-- .-..-.-
to which he replied:
CUNGE TWUNTS.
I couldn't believe what had happened. In all 20 years of my life I'd never come across such bulimic rambling. I say 'bulimic' of course I mean 'salt and vinegar flavoured maize snack'. Anyway, I replied in my usual fashion, employing the help of my long-time friend, the Turquoise Tortoise to complete my indescribable mercy mission - saving Florida the expense of tidying my beard fall out from the streets of Los Angeles. Obviously if there wasn't so much beaurocracy in the US, Thelonius Monk would have done it, but y'know how it goes.
*BANG*
It was all in shatters, everything I'd worked for. One man, one ripe, irridescent, pungent crab of a man had destroyed my life's graft. All that was left to do was to take my own life through a series of compact disc-related vomitery. The dirt was gone.
Before I could even say 'colossal histerectomy' a man flew past in a wagon full of bands and a garage and threw his neck at me. Obviously, he missed, mistaking the windows of the plane for open gashes in the side of a holed steel spear. He telephoned me on my radio, so I picked up my satellite communication flange and spoke to him via telegram (not ideal in mid-air, for obvious e-coli-related reasoning, but the pilot was happy for us to converse in this fashion). My initial message read as follows:
.-. .---.-. .-.- -.-- .-..-.-
to which he replied:
CUNGE TWUNTS.
I couldn't believe what had happened. In all 20 years of my life I'd never come across such bulimic rambling. I say 'bulimic' of course I mean 'salt and vinegar flavoured maize snack'. Anyway, I replied in my usual fashion, employing the help of my long-time friend, the Turquoise Tortoise to complete my indescribable mercy mission - saving Florida the expense of tidying my beard fall out from the streets of Los Angeles. Obviously if there wasn't so much beaurocracy in the US, Thelonius Monk would have done it, but y'know how it goes.
*BANG*
It was all in shatters, everything I'd worked for. One man, one ripe, irridescent, pungent crab of a man had destroyed my life's graft. All that was left to do was to take my own life through a series of compact disc-related vomitery. The dirt was gone.