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“If it's broke, add tits.”

~ Hollywood on how to fix a terrible film

HOLLYWOOD, California is the most terrible place on Earth. A select few find their dreams, a bunch more find mediocrity in life and the vast majority find depression and disappointment. It is a land of super-predators and thieves, zombies and fanged meats. It's where the Pope consigns bad people.

Grimacing gargoyles fun aflame down streets of great googley moogley. Phantom chrome clowns apply coats of super glue to lamp posts and lawn jockeys. The ontological argument for proof of the existence of God is common knowledge.

Lumpy gravy boats ply the canals, plucking roosters from fence posts. Gargling spiders haunt my dreams. The window is open again. Did I close it before I went to sleep? I was so sure...

Just then, lackluster baritones announced the arrival of the Magi in a 1937 Rolls Royce Silver Phaeton. As the parsons gathered under a bodhi tree, a smell of almonds wafted over us. Some of us couldn't smell it. Was it poison?

Deer crossed the glade cautiously, so as to avoid the fanged meats drinking at the stream. Glitter began to float down from the sky and the searchlights picked it out of the nothingness. We are all gamblers, and we all have toothpicks stuck into our livers.

See this hole? Rats used to come out of this hole. Big ones! Mrs. Cavendish put a stop to all that with cackling nanotubes.