The Plane! The Plane!

The joystick on the roof of the cockpit is never to be twiddled, tapped, licked, or otherwise touched. Never. NEVER. NEVER. Doing so will make the grass turn red and spew coffee grinds in a most silly manner.

Rosencranz and Guildenstern Get a Makeover

Alice: Why?

Bob: Why what?

Alice: Why not?

Bob: Why bother?

Alice: Why won't you?

Bob: Who cares?

Alice: Who's there?

Bob: Who are you?

Alice: Who wants to know?

Bob: How should I know?

Alice: How can I find out?

Bob: How can I tell you?

Alice: Would I be able to take it?

Bob: Would I be able to stop you?

Alice: Would you care?

Bob: Should I bother?

Alice: With what?

Bob: How?

Alice: How so?

Bob: How are you?

Alice: How did this happen?

Bob: How can this stop?

Alice: What stop?

Bob: Which stop?

Alice: This stop?

Bob: That stop?

Alice: Oh, stop...

Bob: You lose.

Bouncy

The possums were dribbling the wad of concrete down the tundra when the paratroopers started interrogating the cheerleaders at the bottom of the granola mine. The dribbling thundered down the shafts and tunnels and assorted fashion accessories, loosening the bits of granola ore until the cheerleaders had enough to feed the starving orphans living in the Sears Tower.

And lo, all were happy and glad until the great bunny beast came and smote the ground with a mighty "piffle" and struck annoyance into the limbs of all concerned and took off into the gooey sunset saying "Frozen Faucets for All, and to All a Good Night!"

Wheeeeeee!

In the lab, there's a hunk of dehydrated sugar under glass pulsing cutely beneath the colorless spotlights. If you look closely enough, you'll see that the seams in the sugar are tiny highways. Riding down those highways are gerbils on unicylces playing accordians. Inside those accordians are pipes stamped from blueprints drawn up by the love child of J. Edgar Hoover and Pippie Longstocking who is — even as we hop around fiddling — taking a nap on a hammock somewhere deep beneath the Arctic (the love child, you fool! not Pippie Longstocking).

So, what to do? Juggling birdseed won't help. Kicking the canola is only marginally more appetizing. May as well conclude that "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and set the alligators loose on the piano. Over and out.

Lily Pad Return Policy

If the lily pad catches fire, don't fret; you can always return it to the dime store in the same platinum gift wrap in which you bought it. Don't forget to bring the cellophane receipt or the Men in Black will give you forms to fill out in triplicate, signed in your own blood, first-born child, et cetera, ad nauseam.

Of course, if the cute little man-eating cybernetic frogs at the bottom of the water heater are the real reason for the toilet getting backed up with paint balls, then you'd better call your local chapter of Elvis impersonators before the walls start singing "Kumbayah".

You've ten seconds, so, take your time.

The Trees aren't Empty.

The spiders up in the trees shoot ugly glances at passersby, except when the pedestrians throw coins to the hungry garden gnomes working slave labor in the inner-city parks. Occasionally, one of the spiders will jump down and pick up a bag of coins from a pre-determined check-point and deposit the chewed-up cash in a bank account under the name of the President's pet parakeet for nefarious purposes.

Every so often, the spiders will make a delivery of Spam to the gnomes, but the gnomes don't want to "Make Money Fast!" so they go back to their nuclear-powered treadmills.