The shirt was
Mom didn't know what death metal was, but
"this is for the Albanians" as she stabbed him in the back with
a wall of spices and incense.
or five.
Sick Sven ate. Nein tin.
DQN let out a huge sugar burp.
( ˃ ヮ˂) And then exploded sugar and mitons everywhere!
All the shirts were covered in a sugary goop.
"You're the purest beauty on Earth. I know that might sound cheesy, but it's true."
Fairly nice smooth jazz began to play.
Which is strange since smooth jazz in general is the devil's jazz.
DQN packed his nicest shirts and hit the road.
"What are the haps my friends?" he roared
this very afternoon.
The roar tore the skies asunder, causing a Great Sky Garment to fall to the Earth.
It was Greatly Nice.
It landed in a forest and was eaten by a pack of deer.
As he walked along, DQN spilled Travel Tea on his shirt.
All the mushroom men
Where do they all come from?
All the mushroom men
Why are they all so glum?
All the mushroom men
Were suddenly sucked into a vortex of death from which there is no escape. They have no mittens. They don't even have shirts.
The mushroom men are, incidentally, women.
Fairly nice women
with fairly nice mushrooms, which may or may not be a double entendre.
(It is.)
Although it is a fairly nice double entendre.
It wasn't enough to save them or their mushrooms.
Meanwhile, in the galactic core,
Dr. Trousers was plotting to destroy all shirts once and for all.
However, his evil twin, Professor Poopypants, was
shitting up the lab.
"Oh god," he moaned to himself in ghastly horror at his own uncontrollable bowels. "Oh god oh god oh god," the shit just kept coming in waves, pounds of poop, acres of excrement, the stench overwhelming and nauseating, his face in frozen horror, voice steadily growing louder and more stressed, "oh god, oh shit oh no no no no NO NO NO," his pants had long since been incinerated by the steaming mountain of doodoo shooting out of his rear, and the lab equipment was engulfed in a shitstorm, the Professor flailed in vain to escape but soon he too was drowning in that soupy, hideous puce mixture of processed food and bacteria, sinking beneath his own waste. It was rising to the ceiling now. The shit hit the fan.
"Ah, that feels much better," said Professor Cleanpants.
Unfortunately, Professor Cleanpants was still more like Professor Nopants since his pants had been incinerated by steaming doodoo.
"Nice shirt!"
Professor Nopants glanced down and said,
"Haha! Penis!"
But realized it was a vagina.
Upon closer examination, it actually turned out to be an Arby's beef & cheddar sandwich.
Everyone dined voraciously.
And then got wicked food poisoning for making the mistake of eating Arby's food and they threw up until they could only dry heave.
"Mommy"
said Dr. Robotnik, quivering before his moustachioed matriarch.
"Suck my PINGAS" says Robotnik
Everyone laughed uproariously at Robotnik's dick joke.
"Playing to the cheap seats already?" thought the GSL, rolling her eyes heavenward.
Then she exploded.
And then the TV exploded.
"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" - wailed a flock of rebels.
They pushed the button on their vests, but nothing happened.
Some cows in Scotland coincidentally exploded as the buttons were repeatedly pressed.
The cows vests however remained intact, their buttons unpushed.
Many celebrations were had across the country, and that day would have been declared National No More Parliament Day, had Parliament been around to declare it as such.
It was a fairly nice day
trader.
Who invested in a business that produced
Anatolian spinach.
Fairly nice Anatolian spinach.
The spinach, however, carried a terrible curse
curable only by its rare counterpart, the Atolian spinach.
The Atolian spinach, however, wasn't very nice. In fact
it was wonderful.
Right up until it exploded, showering
after a hard day at work.
At the same time Anatolian spinach grew tired of his antagonist life, and so he shat himself.
Meanwhile, at the Hall of Justice
justice was being served.
The butler brought it forth on a silver platter, steaming with delicious aroma.
But to their dismay, it wasn't Justice..
It was a stick of dynamite
-shaped five bean burrito.
With extra sauce.
"Remember, it's always okay to ask for extra sauce." said
the CEO of a fortune 500 sauce-making company, who came prepared with seventeen totally non-biased studies he commisioned showing that extra-sauce is not only okay, but also cures
Moroccan Sims 3.
"In addition, it makes for a splendid floor wax!" bubbled the CEO's wife, who, coincidentally, was
waxing the floor with the regular sauce, rather than the extra sauce.
ZOG
had lost his eye again.
"That's the third time this happens!" ZOG cried bitterly.
The CEO's wife was a CEO of a multinational floor wax corporation.
And ZOG, short for Zogfry Westleburger Frumpypants, was their pet dog, who could talk and still had thirteen eyes to spare.
Like everyone else, ZOG wore a fairly nice shirt.
Courtesy of a multinational nice shirt corporation.
Zrogfy Wrestlebugger Fumpyprants pranced about excitedly, sniffing
cocaine
that was of poor quality and laced with deadly toxins.
ZOG sickened, and eventually perished, leaving behind a legacy of blood and darkness. On his death bed, Zrogfy, or as I like to call it, Zoggy, expressed the following