Colorless green ideas sleep furiously

The green ideas slept. They slept in such anger that I was unable to find a true meaning to this cake. They were in many shades; spring green, lime green, chartreuse, pale green. But never were they so colorless.

As they slept I took a look across the dark green ground, it was so soft and covered with dark rocks and strewn with broken refrigerators. I spoke suddenly. "Convene the coway of the cosystematic conventions!" But it was no use, for the greenness had already faded away by this time. Three hours earlier, I had been launched into a world of snow, a world of cold, a world lacking in apparent warmth. So there, my story begins.

This article is burly men unfolding umbrellas.   Maybe you should help it on its way.

They had a nocturnal mission. A grand design enfolded them into it's entrails, so as to commence the pipe organ solo but not so much as to defray the cost of crabs. A literal figurative of trackless tires pulsating across dead lawns and tigresses maws begs to sameness. The maw a metaphor for mundane civil manicures debates. "There is a formula here", you think, and wobble your rigor and tenoned smackutorium. That is where savage opponents ply one another with liquor and sedatives, all the while dreaming of sequined festers.

Esther the fester makes esthers in the pond, next to the Julius Caesar montage. Oh, watch those bastards scramble up the rocks like scuttling scuttlers, heaviest of the black metals. An audience member secretly hopes to be decapitated by a cymbal. The deflect their Frunobulax deacons hither and thither, and even yon. Thus became the word flesh, and the flesh intoxicated.

Don't run now! It's too late, they already see you. Oh, and yes, their teeth are sharp and aimed at your comsumption. Today hermaphrodites will sing their bodies electric, so do the gravy rivulets seek the potatoe imperfection, the lumps of liberty.

Between the grey stone calls...

Between the grey stone calls, the five Friday lilypads made an appearance. Being the Sabbath somewhere, sometime, Spanish-accented Farsi parsers busily mounted their gyroscopes atop vigorous sanitary pedestals. Compounding the errors by Turing tunneling, a boring through bookishness, perhaps, nanolilies perambulate dejectedly jaundiced by narrow file formats.

“Oh no! Johnny Corcoran is using the Chewbacca defense!”

~ South Park Season 2 Episode 14

Even after the water tower

It failed. It was a very refrigerative occasion, and I couldn't have seen it another way. Even after I ate my salad, I chose to examine the contents of the refrigerator.
The dairy products were first up. The milk was humming 'Op-de-op-de-op', the butter was apparently restless and the cheese was being worshiped by a Red panda. The yoghurt sang, 'Strawberry, raspberry, blueberry' and the soy milk was hiding in a corner crying.
Next, the fruit and vegetable. Berries floated in the strong wind. I saw the scuttling crabs write their memoirs. Apples, grapes and pineapples were joining hands in a recitation of 'What I Ate last night' and the bananas and pomegranates were still sleeping. I dared not wake them up.
Lunch meat had a particularly Peruvian expression on its face. With the pork and the bacon shouting, the chicken screaming 'EAT ME!' and made into the chicken pancakes I'd had 30 minutes ago.

He was smoking banana peels

Even through the distant fog, 300 kilometres away I saw the draining mist of Portuguese sticky notes. Dates and figs were and still are copyrighted by the government, to send imbalance in scroller door repetition. I saw him. I was him. I was with him. Nothing more was to be said.

By the morning

Imagine it was 9.00 am. On a farm. The green ideas woke up and had been drained of all colour on their faces. The blue ideas slept. Not furiously, not like water, not in a particularly Peruvian manner, but one of them was sleep-talking. 'O lord the Cheese, give us today our daily blankets'... It was chaos. But nothing more.

Waffles and beans

Jim was finally here. His mad mother was force-fed gravy and potatoes. But it was altogether a happy occasion as the trademark bans and sanctions on orange peel trade commissions were lifted. It was boring, but interesting. It was colorless, but colorful. It was nice, but horrible. It was life.

Cyrillist trading services

Fnurdle. Fnurdle. It wasn't like what you had seen but what you had done. Peruvian minks were the main subtitle.

Moniker bestowal of a higher order

In order to convince others that Ingredient and Frunobulax are superior as pet names, one must imagine oneself as orthogonal to dimensions one through four (somehow, in some way I cannot wrap my own mind around) so that when in Athens, don't piss Athena off. Panoply service offered itself daintily among the orderly crowd, with parrots scattered yon and more yon. Yawn. don't it make you?

Therefore (because there always is a therefore, so it may as well be here), Ingredient for no reason is fine. Frunobulax, a large poodle dog, apparently, currently holed up in a cave, whose entrance is surrounded by Japanese National Guard, calling, "here Fido, here Fido", according to Frank Zappa. There is an unwholesome logic at work here, but we will not speak of this here.

Lawyers who love in a secret universe where truth is penultimate and mercy is sincere deign to have their laundry done by character actors. Lately they've been thirsty for chicken.

Yon, yon, yon

Even after the Farsi men had left the scene, men flew. Pasta pineapples were seen.