Crisis

Dysfunctional venetian blinds attacked impeccable pot plant credentials with artificial remnants of deselected squad members from Manchester United’s treble winning squad because the persuasive and articulate Treaty of Versailles concluded that Germany’s war reparations simply weren’t enough.

            The orphaned gestalt Superstate of Europe was left to contemplate its collapse whilst eating an unofficial ice-lolly left over from the bacchanalian street party to commemorate the criminalization of pensive water balloons filled with plutonium 244 whose half-life was as impressive as Queen Elizabeth II’s collection of midget sandcastles. The density of failure amounted to an insurmountable event horizon in lesser spotted job vacancies at the alt. reality cake fair. Mesozoic reptiles scored impure thoughts off a time-travelling drug trafficker intent on cornering the market for longer than the half-life of uranium 235, which pulled a supercilious face at plutonium 244, who suddenly felt inadequate and bullied.

            Interloping mastodons swung merrily during dangerous orthodontic surgery enhanced by strawberries and cream from a defibrillated mobile phone sim card. Blaming all the recent woes on hormonally imbalanced venetian blinds, the European Supernanny State hid all of its food in a fit of pique worthy of a Pope; but which one?

            Never again before, during or after in the field spaniel of human irrelevance had so much money been owed by so many to so few. This was their finest theft.

            “Don’t blame me!” shouted a Nigel, as the weight of all the lies crushed his stupid little face inside out.