“All the fishhooks look like fanged bananas.”
I asked for a parameter, and that was the response. What is weird, I asked. What is too weird? How would one tell? Fishhooks? Bananas? Fanged bananas? Because fishhooks resembling fanged bananas would be weird, yes? Overboard. Incomprehensible. Stories no longer resembling stories. But if a story is not a story, then what is it? When it is too comprehensible to convey any manner of plot and falls simply aside into something else, what of what it could have been?
These logs I am reading, this archive from older days, what is it? A story? A history? Madness. Insanity. A dream. Cabbage. Cribbage. Fanged purple yams, I found my muse in the rubbish bin, and my enemy knows me by name. We all know each other by name, as long as we remember. But at least we remember. I remember. I do, do I not? Reading these logs, these stories, this history, I begin to doubt it. I do not remember. But I did. And I will.
And then I will forget. The fanged foods will fade into the recesses of an abandoned mind, and preprocessed for existance in a society of reality, I will go sane. I do not want to go sane. I have a split personality, and one of them is a genius, but there is no place for the brilliance of an insane genius in a world such as this. No place.
- Sensible: Acting with or showing good sense; able to make good judgments based on reason. Presence in Illogicopedians: Dubious.
According to the Council of Those Who Bounce off the Ceiling, there is no such thing as evil. There are only cats and varieties of chocolate, and fanged bananas, and the odd ugly green light fixture that floats through it all at the most improbable of moments... the jawa dons her beaver suit and realises it was the wrong one. The chicken suit was Carl's - he used it to take over the world. Or he would. That is what evil sorcerers do, right? They take over the world and they reign absolute with the power of a giant iron chicken-suit-fist.
But the jawa's suit was a human suit. Unlike her sorcerer, she fostered no grand plans of world domination, no great madness involving bread sticks and old gods and giant, boiling cauldrons at two in the morning. Sure, she was president, but fostering an uprising of 20,000 beavers will do that. Not really the point. She needed her suit, and she needed to fit, at least until the beavers went away.
Meanwhile, bats are chewing on my legs.
 Army of flying toasters
It is a cold and disparate morning when a massive army of flying toasters attempts to fly in, nay, swarm in through the window. But windows being what they are, smaller than most armies and all, much of this army collides and shatters on impact with the wall around the window frame. Those which manage the swift passage through the window into the interior of the deeply shadowed hut, however, immediately eject toast everywhichaway and in the ensuing chaos of flying toast and toasters, fanged tofu makes its own entrance, both adding and detracting as it proceeds to consume the more mundane food. The tofu, in turn, excretes a new variety of fanged toast, and the cycle of fangs is perpetuated.
Then it all falls down. Toasters crash out of thin air, squeeling wildly. Toast wobbles to the ground. Innocent bystanders go flying.
Tofu bounces. A merman explodes. Suddenly, all is calm once more amidst the rubble.
I did not cause this. I swear.