Previously: http://4-ch.net/dqn/kareha.pl/1310158763/
Let the fun times continue!
Prologue: The Death of
a thorough understanding of complex analysis and
, therefore, simply drank reckless quantities of tea, defaced playing cards and threw them at each other while shouting things like "Zeta function!", "Critical line!" and "Infinite summation!".
Before long, they made
time travel, which is probably irrelevant but might as well be mentioned anyway. And so,
the freshly-made time travel was eaten by the writing staff, who much appreciated their first meal in over a week.
However, the appreciation rapidly faded into disappointment, and then horror when they realized that eating time travel just makes your present self hungrier while slowly overfeeding and fattening your future self.
That very moment, the Norwegians
suddenly invaded and achieved world domination, as their viking blood demanded of them. This was
a signal that the tea party was about to reach its climax: the grand
. The grand was a ritual in which
10,000 live crocodiles
battled 5,500 tigers in custom-made armor. The immense stadium had been completed. The animals' eyes glistened behind the portcullis gates, ready to be let loose into the stadium to devour one another in an orgy of hungry violence. Outside the crowd was waiting, riled into a frenzy, chanting
"WEE A BOO! WEE A BOO! WEE A BOO!"
. This spectacle was, of course, merely to distract the crowd from the true purpose of the grand: opening
the vault of horrors
and reawakening Thursh from his long, cold sleep.
Thursh, for the purpose of an even more incoherent and cliché plotline, was Tharsh's evil twin brother. Upon his reawakening, Thursh
suggested that now might be a good time to start a new chapter.
To his dismay, the suggestion was ignored.
Back in Oxford IV, a large
pickle
processing facility was being demolished to make way for
a large pickle processing facility completely identical to the first. Needing no shame nor validation, Thursh
ate his brother's toast, then
threw
the crusts at his servant, demanding she "pick them up like the whore she is".
His servant picked up the crusts but did so begrudgingly, as she was the Great Sky Loli, living in hiding as a simple servant after faking her death. The reason she had faked her death and was hiding was
her desire to fake her death and go into hiding. So far it was going pretty well. The crusts
transformed
into
Squeeks! Poop on da head lol!
The End.
Or perhaps a new beginning. A new beginning for the GSL, a chance to redo everything. She pulled Squeeks aside to discuss her plans.
Then suddenly: poof Squeeks vanished into thin air, never to be seen for another 64 weeks - Neptune Standard Time.
\ちょっwwww弥海砂じゃーん/
said a nearby crowd of
Nico Nico Douga users, just before they collectively turned and ran after a passing stray cat among delighted cries of "ぬこktkr" and "かわゆい〜〜〜".
Suddenly, seemingly random symbols, words and phrases of text began to scroll by in marquees, blinding everyone's possibility to see where and what they were doing. "Who's fucking idea was this?" shouted one angry gentlemen.
"It's whose, not who's!" shouted a man wearing pantyhose. He was then violently disemboweled by
an imaginary
.
The imaginary then lost interest in the scene and wandered off to
Youkai Mountain. Unfortunately, it got caught in a kappa's machines at the foot of the mountain and was never seen or heard from again. The GSL regarded this spectacle with a feeling of indifference. She then turned to Thursh and said
"Hey, isn't that an imaginary coming over towards us?"
However, it was not. It was instead
an irrelevant, which had nothing to do with this story whatsoever.
Just then, a wild complex appeared! Would it be as easily squared away?
"Let's square this baby," said the GSL confidently. She began her Loli Cute Dance, spinning around and frilling her skirt in preparation for Pretty Deluxe Square Beam The World.
Tharsh and Thursh stared in shock. The toe forsaken land of fingers fell quiet. Everybody put down their tea and drugs. Everybody was silent in anticipation. Would this act finally bring back the story into the realm of the real? Would the plot finally start making sense once it was firmly rooted in reality?
"Kyu kyuri kyu kyu puri nya!" the GSL nonsensically babbled, firing the Pretty Deluxe Square Beam The World directly at the complex.
Would it work? Would this mad partially imaginary tea party ever come to a merciful end?
Chapter -7 + 24i: Nope
On the morning of the 6900th of September 1993, a young panda by the name of
Eddie Murphy
awoke to find that his
clothes were all gone, his car stolen (he had his car keys), and a big black penis was drawn on his head in marker.
Most troublingly of all, his
own penis was gone. What mysteries have befallen Eddie Murphy this time?
Meanwhile, in the distant future in the year 1994, Eddie Murphy's penis, time traveler extraordinaire, was attending a meeting of the Intertemporal Association of Time Travelers, of which it was the current President. Eddie Murphy's penis was named
Jock Johnson
and its favorite thing to do while not traveling through time was
ejaculating. Which, honestly, is pretty cool.
He called the meeting to order.
"Gentlemen!" he began, "The time has come for
everything! We're fucking time travelers, ain't we?"
After a rousing cheer from the audience, he continued:
"Now, let's all go back in time and kill
one another, making sure to leave corpses in every single historical location ever featured in a textbook!"
Jock still hadn't quite gotten over that grudge against his seventh-grade history teacher.
The other time travellers were a little uncomfortable with the prospect of mass suicide, so, not wanting to hurt Jock's feelings, they
applauded politely and briefly before quickly turning their attentions to the snack bar.
Little did they know that Jock had laced the entire buffet with PCP.
Incidentally, he had also laced it with sperm. Hallucination-inducing sperm.
With that in mind (thought not in the minds of those unfortunate patrons), everyone began to imagine they were the cast of Legend of the Galactic Heroes.
This fanciful delusion was soon dispelled by the
miraculous
My name is Susan Yang.
There are seven people in my family.
My mother is very friendly and funny. She's like a friend.
My father is handsome, but a little bald.
Susan Yang.
Seven people.
Friendly and funny.
Handsome but bald.
Shkadoomph!
Suddenly,
Susan Yang and her entire family were crushed under a falling
blimp
once served as the Hindenburg's stunt double.
A nearby black cat licked its front paw, sniffed at the ground in front of it, and thought to itself "
This is bullshit. Cats don't think," as if realism was something the authors of this novel had been striving for. Everyone's a critic.
Anyway, said cat was promptly struck by a stray piece of debris from the stunt blimp, and died a slow agonizing death on the baking hot pavement. Let this be a lesson to aspiring literary critics.
Mr Gray had somehow managed to avoid death from blood loss by
thinking very hard about
prostate stimulation, and thus cutting off most of the blood flow to his injured member.
Mr Gray's good friend Francis Bacon
never ate bacon. He had developed a distaste for it due to people always making lame jokes about his name. This of course resulted in
the bacon manufacturing union kidnapping him and forcing him to
become their mascot. He found that wearing a big stuffed-animal version of himself oddly
comforting. Slowly, he began to realise that
he wasn't wearing a costume at all - he had actually
been hallucinating all this time. "My God!" he pondered.
"I've been hallucinating lately!"
He sighed and scratched his belly. After one too many hallucinations, he no longer cared what was real. All that truly mattered to him at this very moment was
the concept of prostate stimulation. "Why is ours in there of all places?" he silently questioned. Though such trivialities did not really matter to him in the end.
And thus, a star was born.
far off in another galaxy.*
*This has no relevance to our story yet, but will be a great driving force later on.
Francis looked
like shit.
This was hardly his fault; he had, after all,
been spending an insurmountable amount of time stimulating his prostate and
stimulating his fizzbuzz and
stimulating his avacado and
simulating his stimulation of the aforementioned stimulation targets in three different computer models on fifteen different cmputer architectures each. The vacuum-tube models had really been bogging him down.