The time was 3:23 AM. The air was damp and smelled of a well chewed, red, licorice Nib. The lamp in the corner was parked in a handicapped spot without an appropriate license plate, but the chocolate garden slug paid little attention to this detail. As the room tilted to the annoyed jello, 13 venomous spinach cans rolled into a defensive position to welcome the opportunistic rat. Cabinets of cloud chowder slammed into frozen jellybeans exposing the shy dinner plates that belched polka farts. Sheets of mining frosting tore loose from nervous hammers that danced with blue goat vapors. Alas, the sleepy, perforated kayak brought station wagon toothpicks that cleansed the ocean spider’s gapped fangs. “Death to the creme puff”, proclaimed the errant chain saw and forged a nefarious relationship with the brake pedal of promise. “Show forth your photographic valor because last week dines on the future of never”, squealed the green translucent gumball. “My God”, shouted the disinfected, blemished trunk lid, “have you no anal replenishment?” All the swimming equipment stood silent, yet no one transgendered. The void was filled with baked apple encouragement while silly, streaming potatoes lapped gopher fins off the backs of influenza shrapnel. As the frenzied denominator waited in the melon halls, quick hesitation stopped the marshmallow liver from vomiting vowels and drove the incapacitated dove to putter and disembowel. All attested to salmon superiority and frittered away the congressional toothpaste. The sun rocketed unto grievous serendipity whilst pajamas glowed the odor of handpicked hyenas. Peace followed and moonshine bestowed its breath on broken repairs. Lacquered snakes gathered on the gloveboxes of fallen shame and spruce palms shot out brilliance. Fear not, oh wretched red Barbie, for tomorrow scalding paint shall wipe the groins of eagles. If this makes sense to you, odds are good that you have drugs cascading throughout your body.