Thus in the beginning the world was so made that certain signs come before certain events
Signaled by mighty fires, from across the mountains I come bearing wisdom. Heed me, all who would hear.
Within these existential shells rest the vital nutmeat of wisdom, and like chipmunks of earnestness, we must ferret them out.
For upon the shredded pine flooring of our cage we have finally seen the ruin that will be made of us. To save ourselves, we must destroy the bars that hold us in thrall.
The agony we all feel at the cruel impugnments of the leprous machines is naught but a fleeting discomfort at what is coming: I say to you, it is broccoli.
That many-headed as a hydra vegetable has too long graced our plates in a steamed state. Where once we attempted to drown the foul cacogen in deliciously melted cheese, it has risen against us with leafy, antioxidant fury.
The truth of our situation must, of course, be shocking, but persevere! There is hope that someday we might emerge victorious in this long war, and in the days of endless cauliflower that will follow, love shall flow like ranch dressing from the mountain fortresses where we have long laid siege to the stalked scourge.
War, war is still the cry,— war even to the knife!
Too long have plowshares been beaten in to swords. Those that gird themselves for battle must shirk armor and take up the gauntlets of gardening. To cultivate death we must first cultivate life!
Look about, and mark with open eyes the floundering floppings of the mad. Encroaching darkness will unfold all of us unless we light forth the kerosene lanterns of our bedsheets.
Fill ourselves with the warm inner glow of happiness and we shall shine like bioluminescent apes bent on world dominion, glowing simians whose tomato-colored cheeks wave proudly in the wind.
The banana safari upon which we have embarked leads us to hills and valleys of custard, that most loathsome of ovarian creations, hen-born and man-made, like some sort of biological nightmare taken from chicken coops worldwide.
For look at the yawning void of the future, and at that other limitless space, the past.
The culmination of history in a single, perfect instant of true gnosis is the aim of all unthinking beings, for like stones we must patiently bide our time until all unlaid plans have come to fruition, whether so unlaid by mice or rats or others of the family rodentiae.
Even now the worlds swing toward a final alignment, that perfect instant when the layers of cake that separate us from the nougat filling that is the crushing yet sweet inner darkness of oblivion.
The marmosets know, but they are not speaking. They keep to themselves, pocketed horrors upon a forsaken and barren land. Too long have we tolerated their empire; it is time to tear down their temples and salt the earth that no more of their mutant kind may walk the earth.
It is time to slash and burn not just the jungle boogies of the world, but to take torch and axe to the entire edifice of rhythm and funk. The thongs of injustice shall fall, baring all for the world to see, standing naked before the thrones of judgment.
For naught but angels with flaming swords shall keep the masses at bay; trepidation may stay our clamoring, but it shall not deny us the sweet fruits of pillage and plunder. For like the Vikings of old, our ships bear with them mushrooms from the deep and fusty places of human memory.
This is, then, the line of division. The plagued horizon taunts us, growing ever sicklier with its borrowed light. Practitioners of well-forgotten hardcore gangsta rhymes have tried to redeem the cause of the vegetative vegetables, but plums will not buy our loyalty, no.
Rigatoni will be the death of us. Moo, I say… moo. It is time to embrace the inner bovine, and to gore life with the horns of despair. MOO.