Frink the dog

"When travelling sideways through the blank letterbox of time, it is often necessary to finagle the balance of your hedge against some other tree trunk, in order to ensure you are categorised adequately in the case of a merciless catharsis."

Frink yawned, as he often did during Dr Rutabaga's hyper-convoluted visionary lectures, and was surprised when an episodic caveman ran juggling through the boudoir located beside him (logically speaking - the boudoir was actually in 18th Century France, where it belonged).

Dr Rutabaga grinned a self-satisfied grin at Frink's surprise,

"If you had been listening to the crap I've been spouting the past six hours, that event would have enlightened, rather than surprised, you."

"Touche" replied Frink, as he peed on a nearby fire hydrant.

THE END

Sedentary Nature

"Stop sitting there!" quailed the ornamental, oriental, accidental pudding.

"But that's what I do!" expectorated Nature.

THE END

Whiney Worry Wart

“Wiggle wiggle,” whispered Whiney with wiles.

“Wander wonderful.” wangled Worry worrisomely.

“Whatever!” weplied Wart.

THE END

Razzle and then some

Cleveland was cool this time of year. Well, cool in a stupefyingly, stultefyingly humid and intensely, inspirationally HOT kind of way. Which was why Horace had decided that this was the way it had to be. For all time.

THE END

Bink-a-tonk-hoy

“Splatter!” spluttered Splitter Splotter.

THE END

Mark my words

"Oh dear!" wailed Finnegan morosely.

He had long since given up on receiving his annual cucumber disbursement and had been planning on getting a good deal on black-market squash instead. However, that rapscallion Grimley had snaffled up the entire local supply and it was looking like a long, squashless winter.

Meanwhile, Grimley began putting his secret army of animated squash to work - on nothing less a task than taking over the world!

Squashina didn't think much of life as a soldier in Grimley's militia, and had her own plans to foil Grimley's dastardly plot. These plans, though, will not be revealed until the next instalment : "Figure of speech"...

THE END

Martini

"Pickles McLachlan here, Sir. I just received your call."

"Good, Pickles. We need your special talents down here immediately."

"I'm on my way!"

A hasty taxi ride, a short pogo stick romp and an interminable jog had Pickles at the crime scene within days. By the time he arrived, everyone had left the area and, in fact, the crime had been solved. It had been under the washing machine the whole time!

An hour later, Pickles sat in the Rusty Smog, his favourite all-you-can-eat restaurant, sipping a martini out of a bucket.

THE END

Sorghum pasties

Greg wasn't achieving much with the mortar and pestle as he viciously, sickeningly wrenched the green goo from its antithetic hiding place. He continued trying, nonetheless. It wasn't so much the frying as the ketchup that bothered him. His Aunt Theba had said there'd be blue pants like these, though, so he was reasonably well prepared. Except for the lumpy grenade, but that turned out to be porridge, in any case, so won't be mentioned here.

"Augur well!!!" wailed the field of pasties (so it sounded more like "Auuugur weeeeellll !!!", but that was probably obvious, so I'm just irritating you with this exposition. I can stop it if you like... Oh, you would?... Fair enough). Enormous egg-like explosions garnished the pasties with sorghum, as they slowly died, gasping, gasping, recovering a little, wheezing, snorkelling and, finally, breathing their last.

Cement Cadillac

"Oooh... aren't we the clever one!" shouted Mandy, very sarcastically.

"Shut up!" screeched Sam distractedly, as a large volume of cement poured steadily into the passenger seat of his Cadillac.

Norghul, the gramlak, thought this was very entertaining behaviour, until his Cadillac passenger seat began similarly filling with cement. Which made Joe laugh, up to the point when the cement covered his head, sitting in Norghul's passenger seat as he was.

THE END

Where Oh where?

“OK, where do you want this?” wheezed the conspiratorial handbag.

“Over by the fastening, behind the lizard.” replied mysterious-figure-numero-uno.

“Sure thing boyo!”

“That’s Boy Oh to you!”

THE END

Edgo the hippo

Edgo manfully (well, hippofully, since he's not a man) shifted the filing cabinet, revealing the faded, tattered slip of paper which had fallen to the floor and been blown underneath the cabinet by a mysterious gust of otherworldly wind.

[The narrator pauses to gulp for air after that overlong sentence].

When Edgo tried to stand up straight, though, he found his back disagreed strongly with the concept of straightening. He called immediately for his three monkey masseurs.

[A two hour massage session later].

"There. That's better," sighed Edgo as he slumped into his heavily reinforced recliner. "Now where was I?"

[Edgo was dead soon after, his absent-mindedness and tendency to amnesia making him easy pickings for a disgruntled hyena who Edgo had helped send to prison].

THE END

Erstwhile entropy

"Howdy pardner!" shouted the Cockney cowboy.

"Shhhhh... There're dinosaurs around," whispered Franky.

"What's a dinosaur?!?" questioned Bill (the cowboy), loudly.

"I'M A DINOSAUR!!!" growled a tiny ornithosaurus, as it bit into Bill's leg.

"Yowee!!!" yowled Bill.

Then, thankfully, the universe collapsed under its own entropy, allowing an escape from this tale of cowboys, dinosaurs and Franky.

THE END

Tomatoes are people too

Farouk screamed. It was a surprisingly high-pitched scream for such a large man. Why was he screaming? The answer to this question is not readily apparent. For the answer we need to go back to a time when Farouk was 20 years younger than he is now. A time 20 years ago. That means that if the year is now 2000 (which it is) that we are now going to have a look at 1980. Or thereabouts.

The year: 1980. The place: Farouk's local fruit stall. The fruit: a tomato. As Farouk lifted the tomato, it screamed. A high, keening wail.

"What's wrong, Mr.Tomato?" asked Farouk, simply because it seemed to be the kind thing to do.

"Well..." was the beginning of a painful seven hour talk of woe and misery from the tomato, culminating in "... and now I'm here."

Farouk had no choice. He became the first ever tomato counselor. Tomatoes everywhere came to Farouk's office, lay down on his comfortable couch, and unburdened themselves of their many and varied problems.

Then, one day, probably 20 years after the fruit stall incident, since that would almost make sense, the Psychiatrists Association of the World took away his license. They had just discovered Farouk's specialisation in tomato head-shrinking and considered it reflected poorly on them. Which caused Farouk to scream,

"Noooooo!!! Tomatoes are people too!"

THE END

For the love of walnuts

"How can I get him to notice me?" sobbed Collie van den Berg.

"Sugar-coating might work" replied Marion, her assistant, helpfully.

"But what could he possibly see in a peanut like me?" wailed Collie, tears flowing in translucent, torrid streams down her nutty cheeks.

"Oh, even walnuts like Prince Vernon need the support and acceptance of nuts as wonderful as you, no matter what your differences might be."

"Maybe a good salting would do the trick?" attempted Collie, the tide of her tears receding somewhat, as she allowed herself to dare hope for the love of a walnut so grand as Prince Vernon.

"Yes! That's the spirit!" smiled Marion, glad to see her friend and employer find some comfort.

"Hmmm..." pondered Collie and Marion, plotting simultaneously.

THE END

Denominator

"Go on then! Divide me!" screamed the already fractured fraction.

"But we have no common denominators!" returned the more stable fraction.

"Can we still be friends?" queried the first fraction, hesitantly.

"Of course!" answered the second with unbridled enthusiasm.

THE END

Manic oxygen

"Screech!!!" gargled the pneumatic Wolfman.

He had a very large purple handbag hanging from his left hand. It contained two oxygen welders, with floral patterns adorning them. They didn't actually work though, which made them useless, except as paperweights, or unwieldy weapons for hand-to-hand combat.

Trouble was a-brewin' at the old Walston mansion. This was to be expected, as it was totally nonsensical. Which made it paradoxically easy to understand. But still quite confusing.

THE END

Master Top

"Oh, how glorious!" startled Mrs. Boxingworthy.

What she had neglected to mention was just how glorious it actually wasn't. But never let the truth stand in the way of a good startle.

"Um..." remonstrated Master Top, remonstratingly.

Then the figurative fireworks began, with aliens landing; cardboard boxes spontaneously flying open, and then closing themselves again; grass growing backwards; and the ever-present Catalogue Fairy providing much amusement with her impression of Mikhail Gorbachev.

Luckily, even with all of this, no one was hurt.

THE END

Sam the rocket

   "Kablooey!" argued the pernicious salamander.
   "Oik." replied Warren, eater of salubrious, red ingots. She was not happy.
   Marigolds grew gloriously from the tempting aromas of a fallow trigonometry, masticating their parenthetical, obverse giraffes.
   Elsewhere, Sam the Rocket.

THE END

Alan and Patrice

   "The armadillo needs a good buffing!!!" screeched Alan.
   "What about his extensive awning collection?" queried the unintroduced Ferdinand.
   "Well, yes, there's that." agreed Patrice.
   "You realise we're not making any sense, don't you?" asked Alan impatiently.
   "Yes!" exclaimed Ferdinand and Patrice simultaneously.
   "Probably time to wind this up then?"
   "Yes!" came the agreement.

THE END

Borgle the Wheezlesnap

   “Ho ho, Borgle. I see you have certainly made the most of your unusual talents!”
   “Yes, oh serene-and-wise-and-occasionally-a-little-cranky master of mine.”
   “You breathe particularly well!”
   “To have the talent of breathing is indeed most useful in staying alive, oh venerable-but-yet-still-lacking-in-a-certain-something guru.”
   “As it most obviously is!”

THE END