Eight.

Turnips all around, my fellow Boolean clam spigots...for the time of the antler-chase is upon us, and we're not exactly garnished with the proper lemur repellent.

Now, to a more lenient pygmy-sorter, it may seem that carving oneself a sock-buffer using only silly-string and a slightly abused walrus tongue is an offensive Lenten tradition. But to the bone-men, the Cookie Monster worshippers who hide their feet between rabbits and fail at their every attempt to inhale Sweden, there seem to be no barns which are completely necessary, let alone bagel-shaped. And although it is treason to smear pudding on your secretary, the true meaning of worming day is often lost on passively flammable members of the melon-spanking generation.

So how many cloves, then? What is the one true cat litter, and how does the glow-in-the-dark relish trainer remain moist in a world so full of hens? Like a warm triangle, we must never paste twice. For to drool is to mesmerize Ottawa, and to grow ears on an inbred spatula is to throw another bean to the damned. So prepare the soup, young frog-polishers! For the day of the onion is the day of the onion, and sometimes even your own life-size replica of John Ritter's fifteenth nipple cannot protect you from the scurrying placenta of monotony.

Scrounge.

Now of course, we all know how to resist hens. There is not a one of us who hasn't amputated a dishwasher, nor a single ham in all of France. But dare you, dare you have ingredients? When time makes haddock into siblings, and train vomit summons the night-gerbil of death and oversalted yam flakes, it can then be suggested that flammable pudding (a biproduct of interracial sack races) flows from the pores of the omniscient popcorn machine like horny rattlesnakes in a thermos.

So stand by the way of the accelerating sock dispenser!! Because even with line after line of freshly-violated cheese at your feet, the evil biscuit will always...ALWAYS...offer perverse favors to your favorite niece in exchange for Whoppers and kitten-b-gone.

Industrial dish vomit ?

It is known that the egg police grow sauerkraut adhesive in your poodle. But elbow moisture notwithstanding, the evaporating VCR of scrutiny behaves in a non-socklike manner unless provoked with chili or weasels. This means capes, and Ed won't be grabbing ahold of this here carrot shaft, that's for damned sure!

So how does one mock the revolving embryonic troubadour?

With leg juice there must come mosquito sandwiches (item #47, $14.97), and with full frontal indifference there must come tribe after tribe of asbestos-worshippers. So do we cram? Or do we simply euthenize our pasta in the most patronizing way possible?

Beware of argyle, my pellet-child, and remember: Tomahawk, tomahawk, tomahawk.

© 1999 Shoebox