Incessant caterwauling squeakily reverberates over the partition so much so that it fazes the normally plastic Yao Ming leaning in mid-dribble, shoulder lowered into the beige receiver, clearing room for a running hook. One hundred t-bone steaks dancing a waltz with one hundred bacon strips along the wall, watch in silence.
Behind the leaden wall sit two aliens of the nookie persuasion, jabbering static in gesticulations. Finally the words, "...dancing on a minefield" become discernable causing consternation among government officials monitoring the exchange from the broadcast booth above the netted homeplate area. Who is the sleeper?
Suddenly a confused Woody Allen appears onstage telepathically repeating that old joke of a bear and a rabbit shitting in the woods where the bear asks the rabbit, "Rabbit, does shit stick to your fur?" to which the rabbit answers, "Why, no, Bear" prompting the bear to grab the rabbit to wipe his ass.
The scatology of chili infiltrates the collective consciousness.
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