The tofu jiggled on her belly button. He

The tofu jiggled on her belly button. He tried again to pick up a piece with his chopsticks. She giggled. Tofuland was not to every man's taste, but

there was a sweetness in her light sweat that coated the cubes and tingled ever so lightly on his tongue and that is why he loved tofu. Her eyes stopped to gaze awhile upon his

cancer kazoo which hummed like a bee inside an airshaft. The mucosa on the thing made her want to vomit up the tofu, she heaved on

the salad dressing, but it was for naught. The mucusa pumped putrid purple puss and she did indeed reguritate all her tofu. The kazoo was no help either; it too was purple and

made of tofu. A tofu kazoo is no match for a putrid purple puss-pumping mucusa, as any edumacated personoge indubitably comprehends. The gist of the situation is this, my friends.

It's that food typically has very improper acoustics. Why, just the other day I had Straussed Beets-hoven with my Amadeus Meatloaf and some Chai coff-ski with two lumps of

scones and pones. I pressed them desperately to my ears, listening hard, with bitter tears at the opacity of the world. And then I set them down, and heard the voice of the fridge

, "We're all ears - tell us everything!" But being in a crumby mood, all the bread said was old hat, stale news. The secrets of the universe would have to wait another day.

Another day dawned...and then another...and another. Such secrets would never be revealed...no matter how badly they are kneaded.