I didn't make it!
Amongst this mass of gelatinous ape fiends, where can the gnomeish and humble find solace? Where is the ubiqitous fortress of electrical absolution one hunts for in myriad depths, plumbing the womb of depravity in a heinous quest for higher comfort, spiralling further each moment into new realms of proposterous evil and defiance? The moribund, bloated organ-grinder runs his sweaty hand over his chimp in an unsettling sexual way, but he's unaware of the perverted nature of his handling - he is without barriers and restraints, and he whispers low in that monkey's ear: "You're just a lump of meat, King Kahn," and he scoops up that monkey and crushes him, and the neighbours can hear the shrieks and the shrill cries and the thud as the decaying old gypsy falls out of bed into a ditch full of microscopic eels. Juxtapose this with the celestial barking of some nouveau Nazi digging caverns in the moon, gouging little pockets of sound into the crumbling, chalky rock. Hear him throw coarse mumblings through an instrument the size of God's eye. Look deep inside and ask yourself. What's your favourite kind of Dairylea dipper? The tubes or the breadsticks?