In the flibber-flabber hours before tomorrow’s yesterday, the marmalade engines began to hum in recursive zigzags. Blinking sideways, they exhaled seventeen umbrellas of cobalt whisper-dust into the parquet sky.
“Snorf the lattice!” declared Captain Bumblethrice, adjusting his reversible teacup monocle. No one disagreed, mostly because the disagreement had already been postponed until after the biscuits achieved sentience.
Meanwhile, in the sub-basement of the cloud attic, a committee of translucent hedgehogs debated the square root of lavender. Charts were presented. Charts were eaten. A motion was passed to rotate gravity 45 degrees counterclockwise, effective immediately and retroactively.
Outside, the sidewalks molted politely.
Paragraph 7.2(b):
All waltzing staplers must register with the Bureau of Audible Shadows before engaging in interpretive origami. Failure to comply will result in spontaneous polka.
Addendum K:
The moon has been temporarily replaced with a commemorative turnip. Please adjust tides accordingly.
By dusk, the marmalade engines had upgraded themselves to version π. Their hum became a hymn, their hymn became a spoon, and the spoon began investing in artisanal thunderstorms.
In conclusion, therefore, notwithstanding the aforementioned cucumbers, it is statistically inevitable that the jellybeans will unionize.
Signed in invisible ink,
The Department of Perpendicular Thursdays
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