I was gamboling through Moscow when my purple hippopotamus toaster erupted on the waffle bananas.
Suddenly, the chocolate rollercoaster bunnies invoked the Oath of Asparagus upon the marshmallow mafia, and as a result, my left monkey wrench did a loop-de-loop around the flamingoes. It was a phantasmagorical day for the Noodle Republic; every one of the garbage man’s Pokemon cards had been utterly filleted.
But at Crescent Moon, when the Australian Cheese Bear had misplaced all of the lemon drops and Mike Meyers had salted his flash drives, the prophecy was fulfilled. The last bucket of pistachios defeated the moose’s grandfather, however. Even the rubber duck did not know why the Smithsonian ice cream scooper murdered a flock of Canadian toilets.
Then came the cheese puffs.
Unless all of the pirate balloons could stampede underneath the twelve llama lords of science before global warming roundhouse kicked some dolphins, no microscopic tuba would ever smell His Majesty’s coconut socks. Therefore, I detonated half of Elvis’s jelly bean collection right before sneezing the Elvish alphabet with a cornucopia of Cantonese fire extinguishers dipped in homemade Komodo dragon sauce. Little did I know that ice cream does not have bones, and they actually shingled the doghouse with pancakes instead.
Following the Guacamole Act of ’65 that levitated as a result of the Great Toothpaste Rebellion, I tangoed through Obama’s favorite pumpkin patch and empurpled the squeegee train. Five marimbas later, it belly-flopped onto the pogo stick matrix with extra pickles, causing the rabid Christmas unicorn to centrifuge into rainbow penguin feces. Without any Fruit Loops to polish its Jews, however, the gregarious pillow-fighter rejected all of their Martian lollypops without reservation.
Still, before me loomed the flammable Peacock Mountains, and along the way I encountered all sorts of cranberry billboards, puppy compressors, and citrus specialists. Thankfully, Mr. Walrus did not forget to smoke the fridge, and the leftover uranium pellets were distributed to every loyal tax collector. It was soon delicious that no laser beams would establish a colony on Chuck Norris’s beard, so I bamboozled the sausages until the nocturnal peanut soldiers had dumped their origami potatoes into the Caspian Sea.
Exhausted from this monstrous shenanigan, I left the tulip panda convention, opting for a Shakespearean oasis of invisible Poptarts. As every supernova knows, crayons blended with ultraviolet Kool-Aid result in a can of flying lima beans. Every ball of black-marketed pesticide contributed to the eventual graduation of the entire Spaghetti Sauce village. Thus, while my aching bulldozer remained psychedelic, it did not impede upon the Jurassic television doorknobs that continue to tantalize my every broccoli.
Finally, I returned to the black hole and regurgitated the stolen hamsters to their rightful dictionaries.
The Commonplace Notebook 