2 trombones and a crossbow

The entire staff sat around the 2T&AC offices all day today trying to pick out one single sentence to write here, and well, this is it.

We finally named our band: Indiscriminate Spraying. We specialize in ambient sledgehammer drone-a-billy. Our lead singer is post-op trans-species, emu-to-human. (most people don't even notice) Our tromboner was actually ruled dead by the county coroner - twice, years apart - and each time came back to life with a new talent-- the first time, he could make homemade soap from bologna and motor oil, and the second time he could play the trombone like Grachan Moncur III, so we had to get him in the band. Our band statement is more or less based on the fact that we refuse to recognize the authority of the U.S. over Puerto Rico.

For our first show next week, we were going to paint yellow stripes on our faces, Adam Ant-style, but considering that saffron is the world's most expensive spice by weight, we think we're just gonna do it with blood. Or poop. (Not our own, duh.)

When my brother first started tailoring tiny suits for crickets and later for other insects, we all thought he had sat down at his trousers rather than actually putting them on, if you know what I mean. But when his 1986 "Stone Dreadful" locust collection made him a star in the insect world, we changed our tune, and I changed what I had written about the situation in my memoirs, putting a more positive spin on it.

We travelled to the opening show in Garden City, Kansas, but when we arrived, I realized that I had unfortunately forgotten my favorite forefinger in either the second or third rental car. I was doing a lot of expectorating at the time, under the keenest scrutiny of my personal physician, who was at my side at all times, and he advised me not to go back for the finger; to just forget about it.

I decided that I needed to try and get my mind off my missing forefinger and familiarize myself with the marshes of the region, using the aid of a homemade compass comprised of a pin cushion and a magnet. Long story short, I got lost and subsequently kidnapped and ended up spending several years locked in isolated confinement. Every night I would reluctantly put on my collar and nestle into the sickly bedding, stroking my beautiful Roman nose to make myself tired enough to sleep there.

There was one small slit in the ceiling, so if I stood on my tippy toes I could glimpse a small sliver of the sky. One night as I peered through the crack, I caught a glimpse of a firefly wearing one of my brother's suits and it was then that I realized that I had never before shared, and in fact never would share, a thimble of sugar water with an insect of any kind.

The host of TVs Think Fast, Skip Lackey decided it was time to lock his leather apron because of all the very pretty brown paper packets he kept inside. It, inside it. He kept the pretty brown paper packets inside the apron, I mean. And cherries, too. He kept cherries in there. Very, very, valuable cherries. Of course, he used to keep his poo-poo and toenails in there, but he cleaned it up-n-out pretty good. Can I borrow your pants once in a while?

We tied a sheep bell to my sister every day for the first several years of her life to keep track of her. Well, guess what? It worked, bitches. We still know where she is to this day. One day, the landlord passed the green mounds in an attempt to secretly remove the sheep bell. I can tell you this with certainty: he was a dreadful acquaintance and a villain and no one was sad when he was killed after foolishly shaking the Hulk.

So now it is today and I am reading this very couplet while passing the ditch where the landlord's body was chucked. I have secretly used a tombstone as a pillow for weeks now, and everyone can smell a sweet bounty in vodka in my whisper. I have never experienced the luxury of drumsticks and wish I could stop ticking soldiers. All of this I blame on him, the landlord.

Whatever family opinions the soldier brought to church were rolled up in cloth remnants and stuffed in empty casks. It looked terribly heavy, but he was not only a frighteningly elegant gazelle-like creature, but also much stronger than he looked. He sat patiently through the sermon, snickering any time the preacher said "God" or "Jesus" or "Our Holy father", which struck more than a few parishioners as queer.

We later found out that the soldier was not actually a soldier at all, (despite the fatigues) but actually a Dutch-born flautist with the classification: Austronesian-Malayo-Polynesian-Northwest-Sarawakan-Dayic-Kelabitic-Apo-Duat flautist, which is something very unusual, apparently. But as the old saying goes: What's in sudden bites, aside from just another glass?

We sat on the lawnmower, feeling that every blade was equivalent to grand larceny of the shins. Suddenly, the edge of someone's leg (or something analogous to the edge) erupted with more than 503 maggots from a hole less than the size of a Euro-coin. That was when we septuplets were 5-- it took several more years before someone had prettily patented an anti-cut blade. Of course, you're welcome to think the inventor had a greater sense of clerical air than your average non-cleric, pro-anti-cut blader, but of course, you will be wrong if you do.

The wind was bloody, but this man started to run to me, publishing books left and right as he ran. This poor wretched man, this knave from Crete-- how dare he publish on the run? I had the very strong urge to give him a stone lozenge, if you know what I mean. After several days of pursuit, he received a new red and cream livery in order to disguise himself, but I had my eyes on him the whole time, so it was all for naught.

I later found out that this man who was in such a violent hurry to publish actually comprises four species of woody vines and was only initially thought to be a localized small-ish publish-gusher. This made me respect him a little more.

The party was really pretty dull, but there was a modified pocket pussy that everyone passed around and tried out with the general consensus that it felt "almost real". Jalky found himself struggling to move his gimp left arm so that Hermph wouldn't get cum on it. My favorite fugitive pulled his face to the neck of the boy with the wax candles and rubbed a cucumber along the nearest dish for what seemed like a very long time, and indeed turned out to be close to an hour.

I woke up the next morning with toothpaste (sans tube) in all my pockets, which is kind of weird since I don't remember ever brushing my teeth, ever.

Starting with the interactive fetish release, let's first examine the psychological, psycho-social, evolutionary and biological causes for the whole apparatus. One of the first things you have to understand is that a polar bear is painfully disgusting at any age. Now, if we draw an arrow to each point on the map where a polar bear is known to be living, we would waste a lot of time. Instead, we should just load up the guns and jump in the helicopter. This will certainly give you a better overview of the apparatus.