Tom hits table.

The taking of this drug does NOT have side effects. Anyone who tells you different is a bloody liar - with eleventeen fingers and three thumbs. I smell methane - and it's not a fart, before you get smart.

I've not dropped the kids off at the pool today. My back feels like a small Thai woman needs to run up and down it for a while. But my middle arm does hurt from milking the dog on the miniature animal farm.

I was riding the multi-coloured horse when Tom entered the room wearing the pink long sleeved loincloth. I thought it looked beautiful on him, accentuating his eyes. It matched his scooter. Not the red one, obviously.

Jimmy shouted something mad like "I wanted the fridge with the ice-cube dispenser dickhead!"

That man is crazy. He eats worms from his farm. Imagine breeding those fuckers. You can cut their heads off and they still live.

Tom twirled across the floor. Like a ballerina. On skates. In Maryland. Except he weighed 220 pounds. I noticed how fat his toes were. Cheesy sausages.

He clobbered into four tables, knocking over three games of chess that never seem to end.

Especially the rich hairdressing kind. Those fuckers don't know when to quit. Hair dryer in hand, I am God. Look at my shop and it's witty name. Fuck off bro - your name is a tank with leather trousers on. So 1980's. And it's muffler has an auntie who sells her pepper to the nearest farmer with black and green cows.

He stumbles toward me with those blue/green/yellow/turquoise eyes. He yells, wanting everyone to hear. He hits the table in frustration.

"Why the fuck did you sell my grey bin? You bastard! And what about my left boob? I loved that more than my right. Sorry rightie."

"I did it to save your soul dude. Now the left orange felange with the green teapot can fly again."

Argument over. Tom is happy. I talk sense.

Now when does that wardrobe that opens the alternate universe open again?