J now found himself in the middle of a desert. All his mind could think of was a strawberry and a nun with very big sideburns and a stereo playing Renaissance Choral music while a bird was telling him what to do.
“If you chew your foot and throw it out of the window, your stump will bleed for a very long time, causing the blood to drippily drain the way for a new existence where everyone, everything is in your werop? What? Ob-la-di-ob-la-da. Visions of spheres beyond English comprehension class.”
J considered this and realised it was completely stupid. Perhaps he had just broken his programming.
“Do you love what you have done to those people you meet, the violence untold visited upon unsuspecting children by evil, alcoholic grandparents holding their genitalia and waving it around like a soggy dead skinned rabbit that had been buggered by the holy spirit of Silly Gay and Krustin together?” said Gary the dwarf to a chile’ star holding a scripture that would reveal the truth about several truths, about the stars, about life, about testicular cancer, all the information of perverse doctors similar to the local GP on TV.
“I am a little teapot with double dick rubber attachments.”
“That’s funny,” sprang the Bizarre Taxation Accountant hiding behind a cactus, “I thought only peyote brought the plan into work. Rhinestone Cowboys suck.”
The accountant disappeared into nothingness. Was he just a plate of a dust floating in arid area, pointless existence he thought, who thought? It’s all here baby and yet it ain’t. Isle of turpentine dreaming of a white Christmas just like the one’s who fell in love with the poor ninety year-old Grandma. All evidence points to Lohmez as the perpetrator. But who cares? She lived in the water by the bay anyway, consuming egg-like spawns from the Saturnian pond of Dock.
The apparition of Pablo appeared in the distance, garbed in the hooded cloak that indicated he had joined the Celestial Ranks of the Psychotropic Shitting Monks of Dimension Nine. Pablo gave a friendly nod and, far behind him in shimmering fata morgana stood the Ree Land, begging for a new life. Maybe one day... Pablo evaporated like every other reality. In his place was a scripture.
J grabbed the Scripture, unfolding the golden pages, expecting to find, at any given moment, that the narrative would shift in style to highly accented vords with un exxxtraimely ambeegouis natiyonality.
“This is very silly,” thought J, consigned to the fact he was trapped in a never ending hallucination. I am God. I can shift between the boundaries imposed by words describing my actions to freedom - you gotta give what you take.
“Free me of this mortal coil and piss in my face and then I shall be eternally happy.”
J sat alone facing the universe.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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