Crazy talk 1.

Welcome to ramblings of madness, where I put someone’s else maniacal insane gibberish here to all for see. Our first contestant, piecewise, was pulled off here. This pearl of wisdom used with permission, of course.

Dear sir, ma’am, or highly trained message answering gerbil,

I am writing in regard to your Placebo brand belt-buckle flavored licorice laxatives and my intense dissatisfaction with their performance. I purchased a pallet of this product from a local store by the name of “Big Greasy Bill’s Quality Laxative Emporium” and immediately swallowed the recommended dose, which was listed as “ ‘bout a fistful” on the package. I turned to my wife, only to find that she had been transmuted into a hovering swordfish wearing a fright wig. Though mildly perturbed about my spouse’s sudden transformation, I remained calm and began to read through the symptoms listed on the laxative box. I was in the middle of reading the sentence that began thusly: “ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn; woe be upon ye poor and pitiful,” when the letters began to pry themselves from the package and walk off in a huff. I can only guess that they were unhappy about being read.

The sales manager, apparently sensing my distress, strode over on his forty-six spider legs and asked what was the matter; at least I assume that was what he asked because his voice actually came out as something more resembling a pipe organ falling down a flight of stairs then intelligible words. It was during this cacophony that the ceiling began to melt and subsequently reform into suspended replicas of former Vice President Cheney’s head. As a flock of these Vice Presidential apparitions fluttered by,  I suggested to my wife-turned-swordfish that we should go and, grasping her fin, led her toward the parking lot. Apart from the inherent difficulty of navigating through the talking eggplants which littered the parking area, we made it to the car without a hitch and immediately sank into the ground. I cannot say exactly where or how we surfaced, but my next memory is that of regaining consciousness, naked, in a field. Ever since these series of events, I have suffered from a variety of symptoms including, but not limited to: headache, backache, liver spots, sepsis, internal bleeding, implosive diarrhea, exoskeleton growth, alien hand syndrome, spontaneous combustion, death, reincarnation, exploding head syndrome and sudden attacks of my skin falling off. My complaint, however, is regarding the taste of these laxatives or, should I say, the lack thereof. When I bought this product, its name assured me that it would taste decisively of belt buckles, but this is not what I found to be true. Rather than the delicious flavor of stainless steel coated in zinc, I was subjected to a taste not unlike almond paste and gasoline. While it’s not to say that I dislike the taste of gasoline -far from it- I can not sit idly by and allow the wretched taste of almond paste to go unaccounted for.

I believe that, in light of this complaint, I am entitled to some sort of compensation for my suffering and mild annoyance. As reparation, I would like all of the following: Full reimbursement, a new car to replace the one that somehow ended up wrapped around a telephone pole, an Indonesian goat milkmaid, a pair of shoes made of Winston Churchill’s nose hair, a Canadian flag stained with the blood of my enemies, a sack of blind puppies, a kangaroo trained in Brazilian jujitsu, a snowplow, Deep Blue, all the tea in China, your trousers, and the Philosopher’s Stone. I would like these delivered by a specially trained emu sometime in the next 12 seconds.

This is more about surreral absurd humour than pure madness, but ah well. As title suggest, there will be more Crazy Talks. Next one can be expected somewhere before heat death of this universe.

Look, end of world really is close! We already have Crazy Talk 2.


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