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(This list only includes the entries up to “poles for fishing bicycles." Please email me if I have left you out.)

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“Look out!” cried Jasper “There’s a great big ball of cotton wool wedged half way up that mountain there.”

“Tie this bungee cord to that almost naked branch (it be Autumn), whilst I yodel frantically in a minor key.”

“Sorry to interrupt” said he “understand my scrutiny, if not my diction, and tell me how to scale this mountain with a bungee cord and four chocolate eclairs?”

I winked and pulled out my huge, glowing X-box consul, and pressed the autolaunch button.
Nothing happened at first, so he kissed her. She swooned almost melodramatically.

He belched “Marry Me.”

She belched back “Mckay”.

He cleared his throat.

“Find your engagement ring”

“I lost it at Mount Doom in Mordor, singing in the rain.”

They sang joyfully, happily through the sunshine; like a bald man’s comb never once parting his two lonely hairs.

His wife bought Rogaine at the butcher shop in the vegetarian square where the zombies starved. The smell was rank but no one cared about the living dead. Only the repeat-kill squad seemed to care ‘cause if they didn’t little girls wouldn’t grow catfish in their bathtubs or feelings for boys.

Jasper started yodeling and jingled his wedding bells, wished they were rust-resistant, but rotted quickly.

“My God!” she screamed “My bells have vanished!”

Golden gnomes watched; confounded as the nude we midgets ate each other, after the food became radioactive.

Mckay booted the gnomes, cackling like a witch. He broke her wand and ran like hell into the forest of retired trailer-park mullets to the Waffle House where giant bats waited, while dinner caught itself unawares.

*****

When Jasper woke in shock to see a nun chewing tobacco. As shadows past his blue-vein hands like spiders spinning strange commands while they trapped insects, a feast for their gross Fatty Arbuckle tummies.

“Glory be!” proclaimed Mckay.

“Silky Algonguian Gitche Manitou”

“Hmmph, “Radio’s Picking Up the Local Country Station”, sung by garden gnomes. ‘twas their biggest hit, “Mama’s got a gun” wasn’t. The Gnomes rock!”

Rolling Stones fans laughed to see such merriment beside the mountain, in the small town of Roan Mountain, Tennessee where, KILLED WITH WORDS is engraved upon a dead librarian’s tombstone there. Mountain hoosiers who lived among the craggy cliffs of a toxic waste dump where emancipated dingoes vomited after drinking polluted water.

“Stupid dumb dingoes” said the three-eyed yokel, mutated from chemical waste.

“Where’s my mint julep?” snarled the fruminous bandersnatch.

“We just have Mararitas.”

“Make mine with Patron and I will join your mobile Mardi Gras.”

“We only serve demonic stray dogs with a taste for sausage rolls with sour kraut brownies and pre-pubesent ovum.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Neither, follow me to the Crooked House, in the forbidden haunted woods, where we dine on Sherbet Spaceships and Salmon.”

“ Maggot pie for dessert will be delectable. I pick Merlot to accompany us to the cemetery to raise the dead for a samba party, into a life of peaceful drunken nights spent extracting catfish bait from bicycle fishing poles that had strangely become poles for fishing bicycles.

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