shit

Loochaquableycharbingbing lucelpiorkajaflor quack quak quaserfickleshichegurulee quing cheklepil.
Ok, I’m back. For those that didn’t understand what he just said, it was something along the lines of “Dead pies littered the streets of the town who’s name I still can’t remember, but he still hadn’t defeated their leader, the microwave accident.”

Holding his butterfly net defensively, Morton watched as the accident who we will name Lucy, approached.
Ripping out it’s teddy bear, Lucy launched himself at Morton, but Morton quickly dodged. After several failed attacks, Lucy started to become frustrated. He threw his arm back, and with an almighty swing, launched the teddy bear at Morton, but once again Morton moved around it with ease. “Soochyvartion budater!” This is what Morton said, roughly translated “Your attempts are futile, I will end your evil now!”
While he said this, the teddy was still sailing through town, and flew into a restaurant. Not just any restaurant mind you, but the McDonalds Family Restaurant. It flew in there and his something, or someone in this case. It hit a massive guy, who was busy filling up on double quarter pounders, fries and chocolate thick shakes.
Now when he was hit by the bear, he didn’t even notice and just continued stuffing his face. But it had a ricochet effect, sending the back back in the direction of Lucy at 60km/h at an upward angle of 10° and a horizontal angle of 3°. What does this mean? Absolutely nothing except that it hurt when it hit Morton in the back of the head!
With Morton now unconscious it looked as though Lucy would win and that we would be doomed. Stepping over a trolley boy who was having an epileptic seizure, he moved in to the kill. Pulling a series of sharpened swizzle sticks from it’s chest, Lucy dove, weapon pointed down, to deliver the final blow. But something stopped him. It was an empty coke bottle that was possessed by the ghost of Jay Leno. This annoyed Lucy, who was just about to knock it out of the way when he was hit in the guy with a paint ball. Wherever the gut is.
Now a little history on paint growers. Paint growing is a gardening sport. Plant a paint seed, water it, watch it grow, then pick the ripened paintballs. Now the plant can grow up to 1.25 metres high on average, with the record being 1.56 metres (currently held by Mark Whitcomb [he was my maths teacher who gained notoriety among my friends when he found me not doing work and asked me what it was like to watch paint grow, mixing up “grass grow” and “paint dry”. Hilarity]), and the balls are generally 12cm in diameter. So when one is thrown and hits you, it hurts!
So the paintballs rained down into Lucy, as Tom (the paint grower) continued to shoot them at it [anyone notice that I wrote Lucy as both a “he” and an “it” at various times? CONTINUITY PEOPLE.], using a gun made from bark chips, rice bubbles and an assortment of crayons and paddle pop sticks.
Lucy was knocked to the ground, and Morton had gained consciousness again [notice how everything is starting to fall into place? Almost as if the writer were trying to end the story as effortlessly as possible…]. So picking up his butterfly net, he killed Lucy in a way that would never be shown in a children’s picture book [and therefore wouldn’t have to be explained in detail].
Ok I’m sorry, I lied. Lucy did not die from something involving vacuum cleaner attachments and a sausage dog. But hey, it sounded funny.
So the town as saved. Since Jay Leno, Morton, and the marshmallow were foreigners, they didn’t stay for the inevitable party that was held. We were safe once again…

But for how long? [obligatory open ended sentence]

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This we can be sure. In one hand, the creature held a crude guitar made from a sorbent tissue box and rubber bands, and in the other he held a massive butterfly net. It was…the hippy version of the Easter Bunny! Yes, it took me over half a page to say, but there you go. Now the penguin, after putting his tuba away, started speaking to the rabbit who we will name ‘Morton’. Now, I’m not fluent in Jibberish, but I believe their conversation went something like this:
”Heya Morton, how’s things?”
”Good, and you?”
”I feel like I am half a dozen poppy seeds hanging from a peanut butter sandwich tree.”
”Look, a possum driving a bowling ball to Octopus school!”
”Ya know, I went to that school, they serve excellent pancakes…”
“Hey, why’d you call on me anyway?”
”Wah? Oh yeah, pies are attacking our village and we need you to stop them.”
Ok. What sort of pies? Meat?”
”Vegetarian.”
”YECH! You mean pasties?”
”Hell no! They’ve been extinct since next week. These are vegetarian pies led by an evil microwave accident.”
”Ok, I’ll try and stop them.”
”Thanks Morton. Will you go out with me?”
”I think not. I have too many problems. I’m already in two relationships, one with my left hand and the other with the right.”
”Well they don’t need to kno-“
”SHHH! My feet are listening in on this conversation.”
”Sorry, just go fight.”
”I LIKE CHEESE!!!”
Of course, all we could hear was “Scoobachuskeebalalabuchiraspull,” and similar. Hey, that sounds a bit like John Paul II, doesn’t it? Anyway, I just realized something about this story; not many creatures, human and chicken alike go to the bathroom. I thought I might clear this up before continuing. The secret is we wear nappies made from chewed up newspaper and recycled toilet paper. It’s highly absorbent, and only has to be changed every so often. Yes I know it sounds uncomfortable but it’s necessary. If one of the characters disappear for a page or two they’re probably changing the nappy.
Now as I, the paint grower, the penguin, chickens, undercooked muffin, few villagers and a little ten foot tall French-German marshmallow called Fifi who speaks English with a Puerto Rican accent, spoken with a Chekeslovakian accent, who also likes polka music, looked towards the village and the stampeding hippy. Running in through the gap created by the fat woman, the Easter Bunny quickly dispatched the pies, much to his disgust. Now, I must go change my nappy  so the penguin will take over for a little bit.

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A shadow was cast across the town; across the valley and beyond. It seemed some villagers had actually escaped. They got to the top of the hill and prepared their fiercest weapon; the largest person in the town. The villagers around her aimed, then gave an almighty push, sending her rolling towards the town and the evil pies. She rolled at such great speeds that she smashed through the village wall as though it were an extremely thin piece of bread cut by an extra thin knife that is stainless steel, wielded by a robot baker who has microscopic vision as such he can cut a one nanometre thick slice of bread accurately. Speaking of which, I always wonder if Helgas Bread is made by robots. I once found a microchip in my sandwich, which explains why I think this. Anyway, she rolled through the wall, into the midst of the battle.
Many pies were squashed, in the end resembling that of the contents of my toilet after a big party. Although she took out many, she didn’t kill them all. Many shielded themselves in the two places a fat woman would never roll to; Subway and Jenny Craig.
Then, something even sillier happened, something so silly it hurts me to think about it. If you do not think you can last, please stop reading. For those that choose to continue reading, you have been warned.

Wait a second while I turn on my suspense music CD…wait, I forgot you won’t be able to hear it. I guess I’ll have to attempt to write it then. Here goes…dum dum DUM! Yes that looks about right.

Anyway, the silliest thing yet. The penguin next to me pulled out a miniature tuba, about fifty centimetres high, and made an attempt to play it, but all that came out was a noise that vaguely resembled someone relieving themselves in a pair of jeans. This then caused small tremors, as something furry and white ran towards us at a speed even faster than the rolling woman.
When the creature got to us, it stopped and let us see what it looked like, and what it was. Black dreadlocks, each with a  plastic flower on the end. Two long ears protruded from within the clump of hair, each with a  number of piercings. A pair of purple tinted sunglasses hid his stoned expression as he took a long drag from his cigarette. He wore a denim vest over a white long sleeved shirt, which hade messages such as “Make love not war,” “Free the loonies!” and “Fish are shoes, not food.”
Of course, these sayings could not be seen behind the massive peace sign necklace, which was made of tin foil and held together with blue tack. His pants were quite a sight to behold; incredibly bright fluro pink parachute pants. These weren’t your normal parachute pants either, they were actually made from a stolen parachute. Somewhere in the world, someone is skydiving, then moving to pull the ripcord, and out will fly a pair of cheese coloured jeans.

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Then just when you thought things could not get sillier, someone burped and a penguin fell out of his shoe. Do not ask me how it got there, or why the shoe was on his head, but this set the pies off. For a few seconds all that could be heard was a toilet water-curdling screech, which meant “charge!”

Please turn tape to side B…

The villagers readied their Dicks to meat pies head on (get it? meat pies?) [GOD I WAS HILARIOUS IN YEAR NINE]. Many stood their ground, smacking the pies over and over with their dicks, while others ran inside to grab forks. Of course, being the coward I am, I hid in an corner and dreamed of wild mice that ate parmesan cheese made from the souls of little children. This dream reminded me of out children. I remember that they were in child car, and hoped to god that their carer Michael Jackson, had gotten them to safety. I remember how once, Mr Jackson slept with a heap of kids. No, not children, kids as in goats. He’s very ‘into’ animals.
Anyway, no one stood much of a chance against the army. When the remaining villagers realised their dicks were useless, they tried to use new tactics. One tried eating them, but accidently ingested a poison gland. This caused him to trip out, chase imaginary butterflies, then eventually run into a tree and get knocked unconscious.
Things were becoming hopeless. People started to look for means of escape. Oh my god, I’ve reached paged four [obviously the handwritten version], who would’ve guessed I could stretch a story this far? Especially one that resembles the gunk on the bottom of my shoes, after its put through a mulcher, lawn mower, digested by a dozen cats, Razy’s mum, then lit on fire by rubbing two Chihuahuas together. I mean c’mon, pies? Penguins? Get real. Oh, I guess you want to continue. I don’t see why, but okay.
Some locked themselves in their houses, but were killed anyway because they left their windows open. Others sought refuge with the village elder, John Paul II. Of course, that was useless, as the only audible sounds from the elder were “rer-rer-rer,” “erg,” and, “argh,” due to his throat disorder.
The few that weren’t fighting or doing what I stated above, were attempting to evacuate the town. I was one of them, and as we escaped we had to defend ourselves with whatever we had at hand. I picked up a penguin and used him like a sword. It worked! Some used fish, wood, chickens, and their dicks, but we could only hold them back so long. In  the end only me, the penguin, a few battered chickens, the village paint grower, and an undercooked muffin managed to get to safety.
As we viewed the terror that engulfed the town, something happened. This something that happened, happened so somethingly that to continue talking about how this something happened would be pointless. But since the whole story is in fact pointless, I will tell you of the something that happened.

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All was as should be in the town of a name I am too stoned to remember. Children played with their pet chickens on the snow covered footpaths, wearing shorts as it was a forty degree day. Parents sat in the kitchen sipping hot cups of mustard pudding and reading the local newspaper called the Decipherer, but called the Dick for short. Life was good, that was, before the pies attacked.
They marched over the hill, armed with their poison-tipped teeth and hunger for blood. As the villagers looked, it became apparent that these weren’t your ordinary three-bucks-with-sauce meat pies, but something much more dangerous; vegetarian pies. Oh yes, as this discovery came into each villagers mind, they thought of the horrible peas, corn, cauliflower, and slight traces of meat that filled the disgusting creatures. For those that did not realise, the pies had a leader… T’was not pie, chicken, or eskimo, but a hideous microwave accident gone wrong.
Later on, upon it’s death, I got a good look at it. Part cheap-sliced cheese, part toast, part egg white, and a bit of melted plastic, the creature was obviously someone’s breakfast. My guess was that the creator had put it in a 240 volt microwave oven on high for one minute too long, causing it to fuse and form this creature of pure evil. Too disgusting to eat and too tasty to give to his mother in law, it was cast out into the garbage forever, journeying around being known as ‘pre-chewed crap’.
It was this sad life that drove it to a life of killing. Watching it during the battle, I saw what I thought was a leg of ham as it’s weapon of choice. When I got to look closely I found it was actually a pink and green teddy bear which appeared to be made from breath mints and half cooked pancakes. You know I had pancakes breakfast yesterday, with maple syrup and ice cream. It was really nice and…oh sorry, back on with the story then.
So there they were, hundreds of then, waiting on that hill. Mostly soldiers, but a few medics were spread out, just in case. I discovered afterwards that each medic was carrying a tub of pastry and some sachets of sauce plasma. What is sauce plasma you ask? It’s a combination of tomato, gravy, barbecue, soy, mint, apple, and worchestorshire sauce that will replicate any pie’s ‘blood type’. The villagers, holding their rolled up Dicks, stood waiting for the inevitable attack.
Moment, minutes, even a car whose owner forgot to apply the handbrake on, rolled by, but still no attack. It appeared as though the army of gas station meals were waiting for something; but what?

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