"Ten".
The orange Grammy man briefly involved
in the ding dong, piles of mush, penis-less man coalition
is crossing a vast, harsh, terrifying wilderness.
Suddenly, in the distance, they see a town.
At the edge of town, they're met by a polar bear
with an axe in his head, a puppet boy whose lower half has
been burned to a crisp, six headless working class
guys holding bottles of beer, and Voltaire, who's
been given such a severe snuggie that his eyes are
open wider than real eyes can possibly open.
My God, says the orange, what happened to you guys?
I, uh, broke into an Eskimo home and tried to eat their Cheetos,
says the polar bear with the axe in its head.
During my puppet show, I got too close to a BurninWarm Cinnabon
being eaten by an audience member and burst into flames,
says the puppet boy.
A giant can of Raid gave me a wedgie, says Voltaire.
Snuggie, says the puppet boy, a snuggie and a wedgie
are two different things.
A giant can of Raid gave me a snuggie, says Voltaire.
And what about them, says the orange, indicating the six
headless working class guys?
Well, they insulted a T-Rex who just really loves
Coors, says the polar bear with the axe in his head.
Wow, says the puppet boy, I can't believe I'm st--
I can't believe I'm--
I can't believe I'm standing here with the orange manly
man briefly involved with the ding
dong positive mush penises man coalition!
You know us, says Grammy.
Oh-- oh, wait sorry, in this part--
I knew it was going to be risky.
Oh, gosh, everyone knows you, says the polar bear
with the axe in his head.
All over the land, inspired by your example,
people are saying, enough is enough, says Voltaire.
Just-- oh, let me see what this says.
Oh, yeah-- just last week, a frazzled, over-worked, new
mother rose up against a can of Red Bull, which
had moved into her home disguised
as a giant breast in order to wet nurse her baby,
says the puppet boy.
A group of Revolutionary War soldiers
recently registered their dissatisfaction
at having been led into the Battle of Yorktown
by a tube of Pepsodent, says the polar bear
with the axe in his head.
Wow, we had no idea, says Grammy.
Will you come to town with us, if Voltaire
shows how to organize and execute
a successful program of resistance?
Well, we'd be happy to, says Jim, the penis-less man.
But, it's only fair to warn you, things may get ugly.
The six headless working class guys
make gestures with their beer bottles,
indicating not to worry, ever since that T-Rex thing we're
kind of past the point of worrying about things getting
ugly, or whatever.
Then as a tremendously loud noise in the oblong,
green, triangular symbol swollen to the size
of a city block, powers into the frame,
and freezes in mid-air hovering overhead.
A deep, magisterial voice emanates from inside.
Let's see if I can do it-- who are you to-- no, no, no.
So imagine that, all right?
Yeah.
Who are you to quarrel with the power that granted your life,
it thunders.
The power which made the firmament,
put the moon into her orbit, controlled the very rules
of physicality by which you are bound.
The power, which allows bananas to sing
and freshly laundered clothes to wink,
which bids the very stars come down from the heavens
and recast themselves into diamonds on a ring
on a hand of a woman who has finally
been put in touch with the softer side of herself,
via Tampex glory strips.
A tremendous walkway thunks out of the triangular symbol's
underbelly.
Down the walkway stumble the members of the ding-dong
Doritos/ grandparents who love Doritos/ Kevin slap of wack
coalition, still filthy from the grave--
along with the fully restored grande chicken boat combo.
Alive?
Says Grammy.
Resurrected, says the symbol.
You can do that, says one pile of mush.
It is easy for me, says the symbol.
Oho, boy, says the other pile of mush.
Let me talk to it, says Jim the penis-less man.
Careful, careful, says Grammy.
Jim the penis-less man looks meekly up
at the huge, oblong, green, triangular symbol.
What would you like us to call you,
Jim the penis-less man says politely.
Sir, intones the symbol.
Sir, says Jim the penis-less man, couldn't we all, uh,
working together devise a more humane approach?
Like an approach in which no one is
humiliated or hurt or maimed--
an approach in which, you know, the sacred things in life
are no longer appropriated in the service of selling what
are, after all, merely--
Silence!
shouts the green, triangular symbol,
shooting multiple, bright, green beams
of light into the members of the orange Grammy
piles of mush penis-less man coalition,
rendering them instantaneously intact, positive, and amnesiac.
Grammy has a sudden inexplicable desire
to use her walker to cross a busy street without first
looking both ways.
The orange, free of all gashes and dents,
is suddenly deeply curious about the contents
of his good friend, the slap of wack bar,
and makes a mental note to ask the slap a wack
bar about his contents as soon they get home
to-- as soon as they get home to their wonderful, suburban
kitchen.
What he wouldn't give to be once again on his beloved kitchen
counter looking down fondly at the perverted looking chicken
carcass and the two evil empty cans of soda in the trash
can far, far below.
The piles of mush are reconstituted
into two human half heads, which are then reconstituted
into a single human head, which goes
rolling toward the torso of the grandson, which
stands at the bottom of the walkway summoning its own head.
Jim the penis-less man suddenly has a penis.
The man briefly involved with a ding dong thinks warmly of his
fiancée, who he feels certain is waiting for him in a certain
meadow.
The polar bear, the puppet boy, the headless guys,
and Voltaire, terrified, race back to town.