Mr Rhino hid behind a little yellow flower, confident that the pretty little petals would hide him nicely. Sebastian graced the leash of his cotton-candy pink poodle, Fitzwilliam Darby, and scurried off to hide behind the Rhino, followed very, very closely by Pedro and George. “W-what do you t-think the odds of our s-survival are?” Pedro stuttered. “Well, it all depends on three very important things” Mr Rhino informed them. Directly in front of them, an oversized goat waltzed around, taking bites from everything in its path.
“By God, you ridonkulous Rhinoceros. What in the name of Laurence could be so important right this very moment?” George asked. Pedro meanwhile, sighed. “For heavens sake- Steven, Janet, Laurence, who are these fellows?” He cried, rather exasperated. “Well you see, it depends on these. Number one, our luck. Number two, our hiding place. And number three, the circumference of a moose” Mr Rhino told them.
“Actually, the circumference of a moose is measured when Apollo 17 is directly in line with Ganymede, Jupiter’s largest moon. Then, you cross-reference the radius of v with the radius of an orange, find the denomination between a volcano and a banana, and then we strip naked and run around with our clothes tied in bundles and strung between our legs. And after that, we sing Ave Maria”.
Mr Rhino looked at Sebastian with utter awe, before saying “By Jingo, you smell good. Almost like a certain C.B. does”. Pedro wished at he was sitting inside his car, Smithy, listening to Barbara Streisand whilst finishing his tax audits.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now really, does this story actually have a point?” Felicity cried, upending her 56th banana dackery as Socks and Seamus made out under the table. “I WANT MY PASTA!” An angry (and rather ugly) man at the table across the pub shouted in bad Irish, so it actually sounded like “Oi want moi pasta!”. With a sigh of utter belligerence, Marcus picked up an orange, tossed it out the window, and continued
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“HOLY T.S. ELIOT! THERE IS A GIANT BEATLY STARING RIGHT AT ME!” Sebastian yelled, whilst the rest of them played strip poker beneath an acacia tree.
“Ooh, can you ask if it would like to join?” George asked, pulling off all six of his socks. Sebastian whimpered, not overly impressed with his new task. However as he did not want to pose as a coward, he waltzed rather awkwardly up to the gigantic beetle. “W-why hello there, dear chap. H-h-how would you care to join in our l-little game of strip p-poker? I see you have a-a wonderfully f-fancy anorak” Sebastian said, his voice trembling slightly. The beetle paused, as though he was considering whether or not the poker offer was really worth removing his favourite anorak.
“Why, don’t mind if I do” the beetle grinned after a while, scurrying off behind Sebastian. “Why of course, my dear termite”, said the beetle. “My name is Randall-Davidson Wayne Harvey Chinchilla Jackson Patrick Moore; however you have my permission to call me Randall.”
“Well Randall, it is a dear pleasure to become of your acquaintance” said Sebastian, now slightly more relaxed. “My name is Sebastian. Just Sebastian. Nothing more than Sebastian. You can call me Sebastian. Not Seb, not Bastian, not even Sir Wigglesbury the Third. Just Sebastian” Sebastian said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“What the hell, Sir Wigglesby?” Socks said. Marcus was lying across the table, snoring like the bloody Hound of Baskervilles. Seamus was rubbing his aching head with one hand as he brushed all three feet of his hair with the other.
Felicity had long ago fallen asleep while listening to Brahms lullaby on her wireless. 5 feet of snow lay between her and her banana dackery, and she wished that she was a cactus, as she was dreaming of hard needles and large sock monkeys.
The bartender had long ago closed his bar, and was now wishing that these three stubborn Fatheads would get up and leave so that he could go home and attend to his Camel, Sir Nicholas the 64th. However that was apparently not going to happen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With a sign and a green Tuesday, purple and black grapes sighed and danced through coffee on the cliff- billy goats danced the tarantallegra upon a roof in winter. There we big black cows running through the fields of corn, and then there were none. If ever, there was nothing because none of it could be seen through the eyes of a child because a whole lot of pudding felt that people ate nothing but pie. Green grocers stayed home on Christmas Day to watch a field of cows run through the asking bopple *wibble*- Jeeves! The camel was tired, so tired. He was also thirsty as hell. He watched as the small group of acquaintances sat in their small group and played poker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Now really, this is just getting ridiculous! A camel owned by a termite that smokes and owns a car? This is really just bollocks” a tall giraffe said gruffly as he drained his third Sex-On-The-Beach. The group of erstwhile listeners turned to stare at the giraffe. “Who in the name of Bob B. Bobblington from Bobtown in Bobsville in the United States of Bob are you?” Marcus asked, cracking open a ripe grapefruit and eating it with a straw and a goldfish.
The giraffe stared at him in absolute distrust, looking as though he had been assaulted with a 20-pound bag of frozen gelato and a cocker spaniel named Methuselah.
“HOW DARE YOU? I AM A GIRAFFE!”
And with that, he strode from the bar. The camel watched as the giraffe strutted down the path. “Oh my, isn’t he a rather sexy giraffe!” he proclaimed, running his hooves through his bright purple beard.
And whilst he was doing so, a thought came to mind. How was it that he, a camel, had the ability to grow a purple beard?
