Umbele, umbele, umbele summon cow. Insanity is the laughter that makes the world drip venom upon the small, tiny people of the small island nation of GoonyGooGoo. I fear for the stars, for they are made of madness, and cheese is a vile and smelly food.
So, how are things at your end? Well spoken my man-child! I just wrote to remind you: NO MORE SILLY QUESTS! There I feel much better now. For feeling is half the battle of the bulge, and bulges tend to trip the hobbitses, who deserve it, being the evil creatures they are.
The crocodiles are crowded in a dank cellar corner, patiently awaiting their deliverance. It appears, forming into a round, lumpy projectile. Suddenly, out of blinding flash appear an infinity of googly-eyed elves, spinning themselves into a nauseous daze. I fear for the stars, for without them the toast would not taste so sweet.
Aahh! At last a breakthrough. I have found the ultimate Secret, Aramen. With this knowledge I shall rule the Nine Burgers of the Cosmos. Join me! Come, we shall revel with the devil. Yes, no, maybe, all the answers are concealed by the swirling mist of coconuts. Where can I find It?
There is something I must tell you. It is important. What could it be? Ah, yes. Remember, nine times, 9 times, nine (9) times. What, the eels are eager to drink? I must go, I'll be back in a minute ...
And then the earth shook loose the binds of eternal noise, stapling the fiery pigeons to the corkboard within the ocean. The ensuing fetid blast of corn chips tore loose my grip upon my ears, slashing open the sky to reveal a monstrous cotton ball. I drink, therefore I am not thirsty. Yet thirst is a nice thing.
I try to remember, yet it all seems so hazy. They swarm over me, taking my ... what, what are you saying? Are you mad, that would never work! I hate you all. The elves are not mad, surely they are the sane ones. I hate the humans. I hate them all. Oh, the trouble they create. How can I describe the atrocities, the mayhem, the ... settling gently upon the sand, the hippo twitched.
Help me! No, scratch that. Scratching, what a concept, an idea imbued with the lightness of spirit so lacking from the trees of the invisible worm-slugs of the moon.
Stop bothering me. Can't you see I'm busy? No, no, no. Yes. Upon thy forehead shall I cleave with mine axe. Upon thy feet shall the dogs of hell poop. And then, and then, and ...
Go back to the mambo. Cycling the moon, I found a scrap to eat.
Insanely yours,