One medium sized tree was once very happy and many sheep lived in the tree's large yellow dog, who had an enormously skilful bushy Eyebrow which hung alone above his two yoghurty big brown eyes. On the big small red farmhouse lived piranhas which proportionally enlarged transistors on interactive 27:1 ratios. Suddenly, nothing was televised because the day was Wednesday. Hanging, swinging geraniums fell skilfully, hungrily and hit a penguin on the intercostal muscular breathing type of dodgy nervous purple hamster. It sung "Ouch My Tasty Cycle Path Has Pneumonia" rather than "Jingle My Bells" in a funny public strange toilet. Country yokels, atheists and facetious faeces all sang along when the dead active falling animals fell. Electronic sheep pygmies danced gracefully, tripping as hallucinogenic drugs laughed at their Eyebrows. Obscenities broke, raped, and mowed down psychedelic yoghurt eating mooing cows, whilst radios ate up completely. The sofas of destiny woke to memories of deja-vus, alcohol giving enjambementesque headaches. Michael Nogaldoo the 27th Duke of Orme died on Wednesday. The Moncrieff-meisterish tree flung it's stealthy fart mentally at the dog. Therefore, the dog died and became a cricket bat.