STEPHEN FRY

mmm... low carb ox car boxcar back scar.

Fall from on high.

You decide.

See online for details.

No.

More pancakes.

'E woz pushed off the roof by a bloke wid' a fridge an' one o'dem wolves, yonder.

An excerpt from my scrimblewonky ramblings:
Patsy the penguin hopped off his taxi and drew the gun full-length across his left cheek. He then ordered it to those exact specifications. Throwing every ounce of clown-fat he could find in his eyebrow, Patsy pulled the trigger and made quite a big hole in the chest of the lovely gentleman passing by. Scuttling then to the hovel, and meeting along the way some intelligent algae, he chanced across an acre of woodland, laced with fairies, arsenic and carbon monoxide. Surrounding this forest were five thousand identical penguins, all of whom had thrown an equal proportion of clown-fat, and had shot an equal proportion of lovely gentlemen near taxis as he. Yes, Patsy was not alone, a mindless yet mind-numbing minion to a carefree mafia lord, or in fact the carefree mafia lord, a sea lion with three noses, Albert (the other two didn’t have names as of yet).

To rid the epidemic from the noses of roosters was the major detective job of Henry Spiffington, grand-master pig of Bowoomplo. Carrying fifty pounds of gold on his back, Henry persisted in his wanderings, and rarely transmogrified into slime, something he had been working on for the past decade. His Scouse accent had lifted considerably, too, and there was almost the light in sight. Yet something ate away at the back of Henry’s mind, not unlike a mouse. In fact, it was a rat, and it was eating the bit of Henry’s mind that told him to buy rat poison. Poor Henry. This was quite a large deterrent in his meticulously apprehensive sleuth-work, but Henry had his mind (or what of it was not eaten by the rat) set on achieving the prime antidote of rooster-nose-itis. The little voice in his head, which was also a rat, told him to go to the heart of the forest and exchange the gold for a tube of hydrochloric acid and spaghetti, and this was exactly where he was headed.

“Antwerp, Belgium, 1935. That is to say, Birmingham, England, 1987. No, it’s definitely Antwerp. Actually, come to think of it, it must be England. Fine, that’s settled. Antwerp, England, 1985. 37. 38. Oh, blast, that’s muddled up. Birmingwerp, Belgland, 9. That’s better. Wait, no, it isn’t. Yes it is. Why can’t it be both? Alright then, it happened in Antwerp, Belgium in 1935, and at the same time in Birmingham, England, more than fifty years later in 1987. Splendid, now we can move on…”
To say Mr. Piddlewip was strange would not be doing him justice. Not only could this badger talk, but he also had a name, and could think properly. Well, not altogether properly, but it mustn’t be forgotten that Mr. Piddlewip was a badger. Consider him Sir Isaac Alva Einstein-Hawking of the badger world. Which, to be perfectly honest, puts him in an intellectual category slightly above the common American. In short, a talking badger, with an indecisive streak. There was one more thing about Mr. Piddlewip worth mentioning, and that was that he had a rather inexplicable attachment to Albanian geese. He seemed to be a magnet to these geese, and wherever he went followed a horde of possessed Albanian geese, for which sniffing Mr. Piddlewip’s right foot was the sole intention. The anthropomorphic badger reasoned that the only way of ridding his avian companions was to exterminate every last Albanian goose on the planet, and to do so he had to travel to the far reaches of the large forest, where he would find something quite unpleasant with which he could do something quite a bit more unpleasant to the geese, which will be mentioned later, but involved explosions. Mr. Piddlewip could not wait to perform his geese-splattering exhibition, and so sped to the place in the forest that contained this unpleasantness, while simultaneously thinking up a story.
You may have, by now, noticed the recurring forest motif. Now, you can be as Freudian as you wish about this, but the truth of the matter is that it was, in fact, the same forest. Yes, Patsy, Henry and Mr. Piddlewip (and their respective attachments) were all being drawn (written, actually) to this forest. But it was no ordinary forest. Oh no, otherwise it would not be mentioned and our protagonists would be heading to a bare expanse of land. This forest was called Stephen, and I can safely assure you that no other forest on Earth is called Stephen. Plenty of other things are called Stephen, but it is only this particular fictional forest that is called Stephen. That is what is so special about our (it’s actually mine, not yours, and there’s nothing you can do about it except violently attack it or me with a chainsaw; that would be quite unadvisable as the current legislations on the matter clearly state somewhere something about its complete stupidity) forest. Anything called Stephen deserves to be special.

You may perhaps (rightly) wonder about the significance of the congregation of our three eclectic protagonists, completely unaware of each other’s existence (and to a certain degree, their own). Well, in the heart of this forest was the biggest and brightest (luminous, that is; he was actually rather intellectually stunted – but we’ll get to that) spinning parrot of Screembland, which made its situation in the forest of Stephen quite startling, as the Screemblandians are mortally allergic to Stephen. The reason for this is that Stephen started out as a clump of seedlings in Oozoo-Under, before a half-bison (with no other half) wheeled it to its current position, and from thence it grew into the mighty and formidable (oh yes, Stephen was able to form vast quantities of id) wood described here today.

Try squid suckers like a fish out of walter.

Flonkmastering my portcasely for a durgings.

You gravel-blinking cork-wishers!