A calamity of clams calmly made the grievous error of consulting the vat of cocktail sauce, indeed and exceed.

Futility marked the foretold wealth of the nature of blisters and scallions–asleep these three thousand years–monstrous in all malingering. Half-placed drums and quarter-barreled trumpets committed the cardinal virtue of sparing the tilted banquet of affordable sands and Swiss health. Surrender, but don’t forget who’s taking you home to first base while I know steals the third path to merry second. Exceeding annihilated essence of preternatural nature, a gallon of formaldehyde is worth an ounce of prevention–at least if you know what you are trying to prove and especially if you are trying to prevent something miraculous.

That’s what the clams would say anyway in the way clams say what they say in the face of a nuanced calamity.

Cary pulled the thread, but he did not know the thread was attached to a magic carpet, so he was unprepared for what happened next.

The next-best thing to happen to Carrie was Cary giving her a ride on his magic carpet, but the following week she called to arrange another ride, and Cary never answered. Enter the next-to-last best thing. The fleas of counting sheep kept Carrie awake all night long–ever since the partially fateful magic carpet ride with Cary. But what really threw Carrie for a hoopla was when the sheep started counting her. She asked them how high they would count, and they said they would count until she fell asleep. Carrie said do you believe in countable infinities?

Cary realized he had slipped into the world of uncountable infinities and that it would take an infinity of lifetimes to train his sheep to count until he fell asleep, so the last best thing never happened again.

Yellow fronds of lily ponds devoured the least innocent end of the dark side of the rainbow.

Or as Ginger believed, in the last thrill of George’s comical pill, obnoxious to the end, the beginning, and through to the end all over again. Great lumps of pirate dust scattered across the false steps of the gloomy universal universe, universally. Contrary to unpopular opinion, the gates of chicken wings closed a moment too late, and the buffalo sauce fled into the pedal of permafrost across the contemporary fluids gathered in a congregation of misbegotten hobgoblins. The poem ends where the novel begins, which is why the language of the music of the spheres stopped in their tracks the moment a momentous occasion flattened into the eye of the beholder.

George gave Ginger a bouquet of yellow fronds, but they wilted in her everlasting glory. Abruptly.

Martha’s crystals, barren like the surface of a surfing surfactant, joined the long legs of prosperity to the enthralled thimble of everlasting castles in the tower of destiny.

Hours passed by the station like a flashlight on a Pullman car, knowing not how to pull off the spontaneous simultaneity because Albert was watching a little too closely, and thinking a little too dearly. Yearly auctions satisfied Martha’s falsely emergent behavior, narrated increasingly as a licensed modification concerning the salient point sticking out a little too far for everyone’s comfort. Kings foretold of Martha’s brother, who would bother to send an innocent accusation into the hearts of traitors everywhere and devise devices that avenged the verdict of thunder and the clemency of gold for blushing mutinies of the spirit.

Duty drove Martha to the station to collect the barren crystals, but the wishful thimble had lost all frame of reference.

Certified embankments embarked on a journey of self-discovery into a long day of nights, at least as far as Toni was concerned.

Toni filled the abyss of meaninglessness with paper clips and Styrofoam packing peanuts–unshelled of course. Enter sandman’s alter ego and that sets everything right. Contenders contended for the contentious prize, lollygagging and loitering with harmless bowls of soup and nuts, like Toni with her packing peanuts. Guilty meditations on the shores of the Mediterranean looked with foolish eyes at the bacon on the platter, supine and relaxed with an angle of repose even Stegner would admire clumsily, measuring distances with the malice and villainy of a weeping droid-turned-drone.

Toni embarked on an embankment of Jill’s last sweater, but the warmth of the local tide warmed all boats.

Assertive kernels of kandy korn tasted the fruits of their labor and swallowed the story hook, line, and sinker.

Ginger helped Eve give Jodie a transparent ruse along the Danube in a flat-bottomed boat that makes the waltzing world go wow! Princesses lined the banks to watch the procession of fools filter an equivalence of a hundred years worth of anxiety through Ginger’s strainer of compunction. Jodie said but the spine of my book has the soul of a thirty-year old joke, stale this past quarter-century. Sir told Eve to be brave and cast the last chord of defiance in the key of D-minor, obliged to flatter the licentious censure, tonsured the same quarter-century as the stale joke and flailed ale.

Proper peaches passed, chided, across Jodie’s bow, enduring Ginger’s longing looks at George’s poverty of opinions, wounds of pity, and kandy korns of scoffing.

Barbara tasted the hinge wood that binged on the existential films of Rock Dickson, making the Kool-Aid another flight in her fancy.

Fancy pears endeared the little ones to the notch in the mountain pass above the village of annoyance, but the fishing was good, and the dinner was warm, and the cup ran away with a doll in a bad mood rising.

Apprising Barbara of the sticky situation, the postman delivered the news about the syrup truck having lost its brakes coming down the mountain road into the village of annoyance. Barbara said but where’s the pun. The postman said there is none. Barbara sniffed with an air of indignity and said I had syrup on my pancakes for breakfast this morning. The postman said the truck full of hinge wood also failed to arrive safely down the mountain.

Barbara said now all is lost, and she stared off at the noon sun in mild despair.

Entrained jello pops hold together better than a trained elephant in a circus full of monkeys–to the delight of all the children in the crowded crowd. And George.

Ginger would have none of the half-baked cookies wookies bring her from Kashyyyk. Why? Three of them, to be exact. I forgot where you were going with this, but later you will understand, as long as George and Ginger keep their blinders on and the horse fills the kettle to the brim a moment before it reaches the boiling point. But of course at that altitude, the boiling point is lower than you think, and so boils over an instant before you expect, and that extinguishes the fire, and the frog escapes into the frying pan. Hot tubs, on the other hand, do the same for you, if George and Ginger would have it any other way.

Entrainment changes all, and jello pops burst your bubbles every last stinking time.

Recurring dreams of recurring cream became a recurring theme for the hottest television show of its day.

Laying aside the lying awake with a lei around his neck, Benedict said a prayer for lying laymen in the laying up of hay that was lying around the ground with a pound of feathers and a pound of rocks pounded into the clay of fortitude–but Benedict had no clue what to do with the blue hues of cue balls lining the walls of distant stalls of horses awaiting their hay for the day of deliverance. May you or might you frighten the heightened sense of forgiveness where transductance is concerned, were it not for the urn of Benedict’s churn drifting along the wrong way into the curse of time, just watching the river flow.

Benedict tried the last lever, but the recurring cream lied about laying bricks, and the theme evaporated into thin hair.

Inflicted on lottery winners only, Johan filled the overrunning cup with the balm of Goshen, but he forgot where he put his glasses.

Masses of overeager beavers flooded the market with their dams and locks and levers and senile old caverns of domestic disputes. Reputed to be the third heir of Rasputin, enough filberts filled the stadium with too few geese and barley given over to a strain of strained metaphors you would never believe–having already given your pound of hair at the office  Christmas party last summer. Plumbers plumbed the depths of her soul, but Ginger dove a yard beneath their purpose and struck the kind of gold only Johan could dig out–if George would stop sitting on it.

Lottery winners unite, and give those beavers a run for their money!