Driviting The Dalikrab by Justynn Tyme

If you take one table, saw off all the lips and hips and submerge it in a vat of cat spit. Boil to ten trillion degrees and drop out of a ten story building. One history for every vermillion decrees. Then hire a bunch of forest clowns to remove and move the ruminants to a television studio, center stage. Surround it with velour, décor, and accidental myth lore. The heap will, under the hot lights of day time drama grow infinitely large; crushing small cities with its philosophy and goat peas. The very time and space will split open and a lovely red wine will pour out sealing the breech and pooling into flat, corduroy breeches... the fly opens and out scuttles the dalikrab. Plink as a new born bidet.