It was so wierd. The holiday had turned crazy,

It was so wierd. The holiday had turned crazy, all because of the tentacles that I had found lying on the beach that cold, magical morning. They had been picked up and dragged to

a local tuna cannery. Trying to save money, they packaged the tentacles as a new potted meat sandwich spread. I tried to protest the deception and saw a burbling wave approach.

The wave burbled and blorgled as it drew near, sounding for all the world like someone making armpit farts at a very high rate of speed. I knew this meant trouble.

"Quiet down over there!" screamed the DJ, his brows high. But there was no stopping the excremental wave, not this one. It swallowed every beach ball on its way to the stage where

the excremental wave diahreahd all over the dubstep DJ. The two girls in bikinis who were sharing one cup of vodka were flabbergasted from the amount of beach balls gushing towards

their heads. They had to keep avoiding them when they were just having fun. At last, the girl in the purple bikini went to go yell at the DJ for all the beach balls in the way.

After the girl in the purple bikini yelled at the DJ for all the beach balls, she confided to him that "Voting is the suggestion box on the plantation." - over the loudspeakers...

but this wasn't church or the shooting range or even a lofty thirty-seven-hundred-room mansion. People were trying to get real work done here, and hipsters didn't help. Goats

mawwwed in the pasture of his sick mind. He pretended to work, just like everyone else who was sitting around typing nonsense. Being a character in one of Stephen King's novel wa

s not something he would like to do, he thought as he typed the trite, cliche ending to yet another one of "Stephen's" bestsellers. Ghost writing's easy, if you hate art.