re:Verse - ExperiMentally Challenged Special!

As sexy, culturific promosapiens you already know that re:Spectacle works 365 years a day to bring you the latest controverses, straight from the nibs of the edgiest verbateers to have ever rocked down to Eclectic Avenue.

Well, hold on tight to your beretillos because today we have a collection of words so textclusive that some of the creators haven’t even read them yet.

F*ck off.

Controversial German story manufacturers ExperiMentally Challenged (lead by the almighty Sebastióne) have carved a niche for themselves as the leading exporters of abstract wordage in the globasphere, and their biggest ever project Das Coo’ - which has taken nearly twenty years to complete - is finally ready for page-to-pupil combat.

(Sebastióne in his laborastory)

For the past two decades, 2,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 ring-tailed lemurs have been dragging their heels. No cockthoughts, they weren’t lazy - back in 1979 ExperiMentally Challenged broke each of their left legs and attached 8 inch graphite spikes to their ankles so that they would write on the ground wherever they went.

The aim: to see if the laws of random sh*t would conspire to see the hoppings of a bunched of crocked primates create a story worthy of the phrase ‘GodSpunk'.

The result: The most convention annihilating shot of wowcoholic prose that personkind will ever have the fortune to knock back.

So now, lick the sea salt off your sweaty mitt and get ready to squeeze that lemon juice into your talk cave…because here it is.

If you can’t stand the dizzying heights of intellectual revolution then don’t look down…

ExperiMentally Challenged™ Presents…

Pen, Paper, Moose

(A Lemur-Lead Traipse Through The Brain Farm of Sebastióne)

Stop touching me. With your hands. Strictly knees and teeth. Cool?

Hi there mate. My codespeak is Slutcat; son to a murdered father (well not murdered exactly, more kind of very-much-still-alive-and-well, but really overly dramatically well, so well you’re like ‘damn, is he dead?’ - no, I literally just told you he’s not, read back a few words for Bobby Davro’s sake! (he cares about these things you know (so do I (so do I (who are you? (shhh)))))) and father of the phrase ‘Make love to a thousand doves and chicken feed may or may not tickle your eyes, depending on your blood type. If you got “O” it’s a definite n”O”’.

I hatched in Hull in ‘The Year of the Heavily Asthmatic Archangel’ (Gregorian calendar), and immediately ENDED THIS ENTIRE STORY RIGHT HERE FOR NO REASON OTHER THAN THAT I LIKE TO USE CAPITAL LETTERS FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT.

Meanwhile, back at HQ, Francis Fetch was busy spit-shining a hammer, when she smelt a knock at the door. Peering through the keyhole like a teenage pervert, she imagined that it was her best friend Steve. It was Adam.

“Hi Steve!”

“Adam.”

“What about him? Is he ok?!”

“It’s me!”

“Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.”

“And Adam?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What aren’t you talking about? Ha! Flipped it on you like an angry burger merchant.”

“Have you been smoking?”

“Half-past I think.”

“Half-past what?!”

“Who you calling racist?”

“I’m going.”

“Bye Steve! My ferociously fleshy friend for forgotten fun-fair fantasy frolics. Finally, Fosters froth,” she said, supping from the pint glass like a bisexual crab.

Slamming the door behind her, really-really-really fast-then-slow-then-slow quickly, Francis danced upstairs Arab-ly and undressed in less time than it takes for you to suck all the red magic out of a fire stick. Reappearing in another dimension, she divided the cake into pies, and let everyone in the room have a slice except for Alan, because she was jealous of the Mark Lamaar impression he had done earlier using an object not specified here.

“Raaaaaassssssclaaarrrrrrt” she whispered, and faced due north for a bit for joke.

Surprisingly, everyone went on to become...wait…where’s my sugar puffa jacket? I’m going to milk this one for all it’s worth(er’s original NUTTER).

End of Part 6

Bling Crosby

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