Bat Shit Loony Union
The Bat Shit Loony Union (established 1978) is an international trade union and the largest chartered group of loonies in the world. It is made up of fifty-six national branches in the United States and twenty-eight international unions, together representing more than 7.8 million million active, retired and robotic whackos.
Originally founded as an activist group with goals of taunting Mormon missionaries, informing small children that there is no Santa Claus, tossing wolverines into cocktail parties, selling custom door hinges to terrorist line cooks, intercepting sailboats en route to Calais, stealing wheels from rickshaws, searching for all photos of Sophia Loren, blackmailing lawyers who work for dentists, drinking beer until sleep overtakes, legalizing moron beating, intimidating porpoises, closing down businesses that discriminate against Mayans, perplexing dogs with electromagnetic devices, improving overall quality of popcorn, smuggling themselves across borders by hiding inside their own heads, convincing homophobes that they themselves are gay, wrapping conservative politicians in pink Saran Wrap and barging in on complete strangers while they're on the toilet.
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Smacking of good taste, Rodney quick-stepped into the van and began his 5 hour trek into the hinterlands. The rest of the party consisted of Lolly, a goobermonger, Cameron, a cruise director with manic palsy, Patrice, a musicologist with a deafening lisp, and Lorenzo, proprietor of a talking donut shop. They piled in with abandon, happy to be away from the hither-thither of the thity, thickening with its thalty language and thuperb Christian values. The driver, a strapping specimen of a baboon, got in last, hitched his seatbelt tightly, pummeled his kneecaps resolutely, shook a rabid badger and nudged the old Econoline van into forward propulsion. Glum elven folk gathered loosely around the vehicle, keeping a mature female giraffes distance between themselves and the passengers.
Ploddingly but steadily a crowd of harridans formed loose rings around the elves. By the second hour of travel, these extended several hundred meters, their shrill harping piercing bone and sinew of all who heard it. Bachelor cantilevers flapped and fapped gracelessly above, their ghastly formation slamming shadows into the somnambulance below. A shudder thrills the groundlings, momentarily importing cassowaries from Ukraine and Romania. Thai middle and upper men moved the money and sanded hardwood floors.
Like a salesman[edit | edit source]
Listening to Rush through headphones at bone-jarring decibel values, a salesman looks through a glass, darkly. He sits up on his shabby bed, cracks a can of Canada Dry ginger ale, reaches for the joint in the hotel ashtray (this one had 5 smoking rooms, all on the 17th floor) and struggles with the memory of his purpose in life, as revealed by a lecherous, cantankerous god. The joint remains unlit as he stands slowly, knees popping and lumbar spine protesting angrily. He aims for the bathroom, probably twenty steps to the threshold. Three and a half minutes on and he suddenly collapsed onto his bed, all shambly and bestrewn.
Right on schedule, calumnous channel lock pliers rained metallic hell upon select neighborhoods, guided by the latest in military precognitive hardware. Oh, but the wretched wrenched wreality shocks us to belligerence, such that Grumpy Gus probed the length of this very sentence, counting commas (which is not at all like counting crows) like asparagus, plumbing the plumbing for plums and plumb bobs as a dervish would derv. And so it begins again.