Flowery Language

Once upon a time there was a little orchid called Paulo.
  
Paulo was just minding his own business, photosynthesizing like a boss. It was a lovely day to be an orchid. The sun was shining, the bees were stinging. Nothing could possibly upset a day like this.
  
But then came along Paulina, the big bad butch chrysanthemum. 'Hey, bitch, you're photosynthesizing on my turf,' she butched.
  
Paulo, of course, didn't understand a word of it, but he could tell from her tone she needed to be put in her place. "Pinchi gringo poota, beunos diaz!" he yelled at her.
  
So Paulina was like 'i ain't no gringo, biatch, i'm orange innit!' and pushed Paulo off the tree he was happily parasiting off. He fell to the ground and writhed about complaining he ain't got no time for dis shit.
  
He'd never seen the ground before. It was nice. Maybe he'd stay down here forever. He could find a girlfriend, get a little apartment, maybe give barber school another try.
It dawned on him that he was being watched.
  
By none other than the Cheshire Cat.
'Helloooooooooo,' said the cat, smiling like a maniac.
'Oh man, I ain't got time for dis,' said Paulo and rolled away into some bushes.
There he found a pretty female girl orchid and made hot sweet love right there and then.
  
Cheshire Cat watched the whole thing. He waited until he was done to reveal the bad news.
"Pauloooo, you ssssick pervert, that is your mother."
Dun dun
"And she's dead."
Dun dun dun
"You're a necrophiliac and a... incestophiliac."
Paulo, still not any better at understanding English, despite having heard it at least twice now, went for another round with his dead mother.
  
The audience went 'ha'.
This was all turning into a rather surreal dream, thought Paulo. Him doing terrible things to his mother and suddenly everyone watching and him being naked.
Any minute now I'm going to wake up.
Except he didn't. This was pretty real and horrific. Well, time to run away and start a new life on the road, he told himself.
  
But how could a little legless flower like him get out of this vast forest?
He did what most people do: He got a dead end job to pay the bills while he continued to make big plans for the future that just kept getting further and further away.
  
Until one day the cops came to his door and said, 'Paulo Mantini?' and he said 'yes?' and they said some other things about his dead raped mother and the short of it is he spent the night in a cell hoping the Cheshire Cat or Paulina would bail him out.
He knew for sure that Paulina had a crush on him, or why would she have abused him and kicked him out of his tree? Surely she would rescue him.
  
Sure enough, Paulina came for a visit. Upon hearing she was in the building, he slicked his pedals back and checked his pistons in the mirror.
She needed help with her algebra homework.
And by "help with her" I mean "him to do her."
After he finished it, she said, "Thanks, Paulo! I owe you one!" and she left.
Ahh, just like the old days, he thought.
  
First they kick you out of your tree, then they make you do their homework, then they leave you. It's the same old story.
So he spent the night being violated by various cell members and longing for the morning.
  
Finally Paulo was let out of his cell, but he wasn't set free. He was taken down the hall and put in a room with a table and two chairs and one-way glass.
He waited for several minutes before a balding man with a sweater came in and sat across from him.
"Hello, Paulo. I'm Dr. Roomba."
Paulo had learned English from his cell mates, so he could participate in the dialogue now.
"Get me out of here."
"I'm afraid we can't let you go until I declare you sane."
"I just got raped in my cell! How could I be sane?"
"How does rape even work with flowers? Don't you need the help of bees to procreate?"
"Flowers can mate lots of ways!" he said defensively. "We just don't go around flaunting it."
  
And so it was that the interrogation turned into Paulo dictating the entire flower version of the Kama Sutra. Dr. Roomba was so indebted to him for the sex tips (he was having trouble with his wife) that he let him off jack free.
The first thing Paulo did was buy a convertible and sunglasses and go gambling and living his life to the full.
So he strolled into a gambling hall one evening in his best tuxedo (he found a money-tree) and sat down to play poker. There were some interesting characters at the table that night.
   
There was a suspicious mushroom named Tommy Two-Eyes, a suspicious starfish named Tommy No-Eyes, and a suspicious septic tank named Tommy I-Got-My-Eyes-On-You-Boy.
They played poker like nobody Paulo had ever seen before. They folded every single hand, no matter how good it was.
 After about an hour, the three Tommies were broke and Paulo had all the money.
"You got some chops, kid," said the fungal Tommy.
"Yeah, you got moxie, kid."
"Yeah, you've got spunk, kid."
Paulo was kind of embarrassed for them. "Hey, let's play something else, eh? Rock paper scissors?"
They agreed.
He couldn't wait to see what strategy they'd come up with this time.
  
It was pretty simple to crack. Fungal Tommy always went for paper, Tommy no eyes went for rocks, and eyes on you went for scissors. Every single time.
So Paulo cashed in that night. He left with three more convertibles and three more pairs of shades.
One of the pairs was really cool, like this pair he once had when he was little that cost $100 and was his favourite thing ever but was stolen.
Now that he remembered the dude who stole his sunglasses, he swore revenge but then he sort of couldn't be bothered so he just went on holiday instead.

Contemporary Puke

German Phenomenology Makes Me Want to Strip and Run through North London
 

Page seven - I've had enough of Being and Time

and of clothing. Many streakers seek quieter locations

and Marlborough Road's unreasonably quiet tonight.

If it were winter I'd be intellectual, but it's Tuesday

and I'd rather be outside, naked, than learned -

rather lap the tarmac escarpment of Archway Roundabout

wearing only a rucksack. It might come in useful.

I can't take any more of Heidegger's Dasein-diction,

I say as I jettison my slippers.

When I speak of my ambition

it is not to be a Doctor of Letters

or to marry Friedrich Nietzsche, it turns out,

or to think better.

It is to give up this fashion for dressing.

It is to drop my robe on the communal stairs

and open the front door onto the commuter hour,

my neighbour, his Labrador, and say nothing

of what I know or do not know, except what my body announces.

 

I step out into the street and a puddle meets my feet,
a puddle not of rain, but of hypodermic delight.
Where are you off to?
says a bobby, slapping my bare hind.
I'm reminded of Coach Diddle,
the way he used to pat me so.
Cats in the alley sing a dirge in honor of fallen human knowledge.
I feint a nod of approval.
Oh, the humanity, such losticiousness!  
 

And thus I find myself,

with the bark of the Labrador,

clobbering that bobby around the auditory devices

with a copy of Nietzsche's The Birth of Tragedy.

I do not think better.

Cold snakes encircle my wrists,

my feet are muddied by the puddle,

as the bobby says,

"Anything you say may be used..."

I blank out the rest, too focused am I 

on the sight of a crow ensnared in the 

plastic handcuffs of a pack of coke.

I feint a nod of approval and ask the bobby

for pen and paper to make a note of the moment

for a later poem.
 

I am located to a maximum security cookie jar by my friend in blue.
A prison of both the body and the mind.
But especially the body.
Speaking of bodies, the inmates googol at the still nude mine.
The tried method of quoting Aristotle proves ineffectuative.
If only I'd equivocated my paternal,
who vocated science would make a better mistress.
Gentlemen, let me be frank, I say.
Frank, you're gonna learn to butle like a butler, say they.

'I find your discourse quite frank,' I say.

'Who's Frank? Why do you keep talking about him?' they recall.

I tap my ofalctory device, driving them insanier.

The bobby, too, is spiced by this.

Ah, my great teachers, how you would be proud of me, 

for I have stumbled upon the lynchpin to my freedom.

Behold, it is not streaking, but Frank.

I bargain with the bobby.

He is easily won over, the mystery of Frank burning

his seat.
 

Blackmail and bribe, working together
for a colon good.
Mayhaps the Germanians aren't so bad.
In a my the house home apartment
I now streak only
in the
closet.

Look What the Wind Blew In

 There once was a lizard named Slim Lizzy. She wasn't popular amongst other lizards, because she did a standup comedy routine once and accidentally offended the black lizards. So she made friends with the ants and lived under ground with them. 

 It was all going pretty well, and she made a friend called Adam who was an ant. But soon the ants' weird cultural practices became apparent.

 Late at night, when no humans were looking, they all voted on the ugliest ant in the colony. The unlucky winner was then tied down and tickled with its own antenna until it died from laughter.
 "That's horrible, Adam," bitched Lizzy. "How can you guys let something like that happen?"

 "Jeez," said Adam. "Don't be such a party-pooper. What's so wrong about laughter?"

 "What's wrong is it's only one letter away from slaughter. You should be more ashamed of yourself than usual. Hmph! If anyone needs me, I'll be drowning my sorrows in wedding cake." She slithered off.

 So Slim sought a new culture to slip into. She found a termite mound and gave them a go.

 However, just in the introductions stage it became obvious this wasn't for her.

 "Hi," said a friendly looking termite. "My name's Gjklajgrelbob."

 "Er... I'm sorry, I left a... food... in the oven. Bye."

 "I don't belong anywhere. This cold world and I just aren't compatible. Ooh, that would make a great Livejournal post."
 She sat by the garbage cans and cried, hoping someone would hear her and come cheer her up.

 The wind said, "I still love you!"

 But the wind didn't have arms or a culture she could get hugged by. It was also cold and annoying.

 Just then an eagle swooped down and grabbed her.

 "This is it," she thought. "This is how I'm going to die - by being fed to hungry baby birds."

 The majestic eagle flew at mach 3 towards the magnetic north pole for what seemed like hours. But in what scientists would classify as "one mofo of a coincidence," the eagle was penetrated by a stray cosmic ray and died in mid air. Lizzy fell to the earth, hundreds of miles away from everything she'd ever marked as her territory.  

 It was here that she found a culture to which she belonged. And it involves lots of cute things like baby seals and polar bear pups, yay!! But first, a 5 hours interlude where she watched the aurora borealis (that's the north pole, right?) and totally didn't die of cold being cold blooded and everything.

 "Welcome to our land!" welcomed the elder penguin. "I am Walthrick. I rule this--hey!"
 Lizzy marked Walthrick as her property. He should have thanked her. She didn't understand what he was getting so pissy about.

 Walthrick said he was going for a swim, and he expected her to be ready to apologise by the time he got back. Lizzy din' got time for dat though. She moved on and met a bunch of seals looking all cute and helpless and waiting to be eaten by a killer whale.

 "Hello, dears. What are your names?"
 The cutest of the seals spoke first. "I once picked my nose 'till it bleeded!"

"Did you? Well that's very good. Have this snowball as a reward."

"Yaaaaaayyy!" said the seal. "This is the best day ever!"

 It played with the snowball for half an hour while Lizzy and the adult seals got better acquainted (if you know what I mean, huh, huh? No okay there was no sex).

 They hit it off like a house on fire. That was when the iceberg they were floating on decided to catch fire.

Everyone died in a horrible firey drowny death, except Lizzy who got rescued by the wind.

She checked off 'seals' from her list of possible arctic cultures.

 The wind dropped her on an igloo. She went inside to keep warm and maybe find something 50 times her weight to lift—lizards are showoffs like that. Inside she saw none other than her long last ant friend. It was a heart-throbbing reunion.
 "Adam! What are you doing here?"

 "Ah, Lizzy. I couldn't stay away from you forever." *SMOOCH*

 They built themselves a little igloo on a hill, and lived off snowflakes. Things got a bit confusing when Lizzy got knocked up with ant babies, which grew inside her and would burst through her skin to hatch. But they worked through it. She just got a hell of a lot of stitches, and everyone lived happily ever after.

The End.

The Shoes Maketh the Monk

 Once upon a time there was a pair of red shoes. They had been handcrafted from finest leather by monks who lived in the mountains high up in the clouds. They smelt of leather, surprisingly, and because leather is one of the better smells in the world, the shoes were much sought after, and went on to have a long and eventful life.

 They were first bought by a sweet transvestite, Patrickcia, who climbed the mountain to prove his love to his boyfriend/girlfriend/something, Renando. He brought them back as proof that he had met the monks, but also because they looked pretty hot and would suit Renando's glamourous outfits. Renando was wooed by the gift and they had some pretty hot sex that night. However, the relationship did not last long. Turns out Patrickcia got off with one of the monks after he bought the shoes. Distraught, Renando threw them out of the third story window in his/her anger.

 The shoes waited patiently on the pavement outside under the streetlights, wondering what would become of themselves.

 

  The shoes sat for days. All manner of interesting characters passed by, but none of them stopped. They had better stories to get to. Finally a toothless woman from Arkanhoma found them and grinned a toothless Arkanhoman grin.
 "I gawt me sum  wawkin' apparatuses!" she exclaimed.
 She brought them home to their trailer. It was quite ghetto. Even the concrete blocks supporting it needed supported by concrete blocks. Billy Bawb was inside trying to pick up a channel—any channel—with a butter knife as an antenna.
 "I do say, my good woman, whence came such lavish footwear?" 

 'Nawn a yaw fookin bidniss!'

 She superglued the shoes to her feet, just in case, and propped them up on the coffee table and went 'aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh put the kettle on'.

 That night, Billy Bawb snuck into her room with his butter knife. The Arkanhoman woman sighed and rolled over in her sleep. 'Bunnies,' she said, and smiled.

 Billy lifted the sheets slowly, his toothless grin shining in the moonlight (don't question it). He brought the knife down in a flash of blunt metal and sawed the shoes off her feet.
  'Aaaaewkelwaht eilwa;y joa;'roiewaslkyhnaewl'tj klasjkl;eawj kl;eajklreiytopajt!!!' she screamed. All the birds woke up and flew away screaming from the trees. Billy Bawb held the shoes up by their laces, went 'durp durp' and fled the caravan.

 

  It was well past sunset at this point. The world was dark and foreboding. Yet there was a sense of excitement to it. Billy Bawb could go anywhere and do anything he wanted. In fact, now that he thought about it, he'd never really seen the town at night before. He went to the local high school and played on the playground.
 Little did he know this area had a higher crime rate than Central Park. A group of 10-year-olds who were up to no good started making trouble in the neighborhood.
 The munchkins gave Billy Bawb a savage beating and claimed the glorious red shoes for their own. It wasn't a story he'd be telling his kids some day. 

 

 But Peter and Tony were little munchkins, so they couldn't decide who should have the shoes. They didn't want to share, because that was for pussies. So Peter knifed Tony in the face and claimed the shoes for his own. 'My preciousssss,' she said. Then Tolkein came back from the dead, just for the purpose of suing him. Then he went back to being dead.

  Peter played on the swing for a while, holding his feet out in front of him to admire his shoes in all their glory. Everything else looked grey in the streetlight, but the shoes were still a shameless strumpet red. Like a whore (people can be red, right?)

  It got chilly, so he took a walk. He made his way down the avenue round the back of his house, appreciating the way the new shoes cushioned his feet and made him feel like he could run forever. Then a black cat fell out of a dustbin and into his face. It started hissing and scratching and biting and other ings.

  The cat was actually his sister Rae, transfigured by a witch, trying to communicate with Peter. She figured the best way to get him to understand was to act exactly like a real cat.
 "Aw, geez, get off me! You're worse than my sister!"
 "Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow," said Rae.
 Peter gave the cat a kiss to shut it up, because his mom told him every problem could be solved with love. Then much to his surprise she transformed back into his sister.
 That night Rae borrowed Peter's red shoes while he was busy playing his Colecovision. She wanted to wear them on her date tonight with a handsome monk she met on a dating website.

 

 She primped and pouted in the mirror, applying MORE lipstick and MORE eyeliner, because she wanted to look as pure as the dawn (lulwut?) She snuck out of her window, climbing down the tree outside, and laddering her tights in the process.

  She met Humphrey in the graveyard, because that was as close to  getting into a church out of hours as you can get, but also because it makes a spooooooooooooky setting wooooooooooo (ghost noises). 

Humphrey's eye twinkled when he saw her, and not because she looked like a prostitute, but because he saw the shoes he had sought after for so many minutes since Patrickcia bought them off him.

  They sat down at a table and waited to be waited on.
 "So tell me, Rae, what do you do for fun?"

 "Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow," said Rae.

 "...Okay."
 They sat in silence for a while. The zombie patrons laughed and enjoyed their evening, which annoyed Humphrey because it reminded him of all the times he was excluded in school by his zombie classmates and zombie teachers. He'd had just about enough of this date. He lunged forward and snatched the shoes and ran off. Rae turned back into a cat, due to a typo in the curse agreement forms. The witch fired her secretary. 

 

 Humphrey continued to do the only thing that could be done with the shoes, to stop their curse of leaving behind a trail of dead or injured people. He fed them to the offspring of the very coat that produced them. He was a monk, so he didn't have any moral quirms about the weird cannibalistic nature of this gesture.

  He sat back, relaxed, sparked up a cigar, and patted himself on the back. Good job, Humphrey.

The End.

Head 'em Off at the Past

  Elvis Kickthroat was a blacksmith in 19th century America, a time and place where everything was brown. He had a son named Ronald Thwirpwit (his father made him take on his mother's maiden name because he wasn't a bad enough dude for Kickthroat). Elvis wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, but Ronald's dream was to be a Mexican. One day, Ronald was impaled by a 1-dimensional woman and died. Please observe a moment of silence for Ronald now, as he will not be mentioned again in this story.

 Cue standard tavern scene. Men in the corner played that finger stabbing game, the women from upstairs offered themselves to blowup dolls, the bartender cleaned whiskey mugs with a cloth that had never been washed. Elvis waited until someone entered the tavern and then jumped in before the doors swung back shut. Not because he hated that cliche where you push them open dramatically and everyone goes quiet when you step inside, but because it was flu season and he didn't want to touch the door. Incidentally, everyone did go quiet when he walked in. Not because they were intimidated by Elvis; it was just one of those freaky coincidences where everyone took a breath at the same time and nobody wanted to be the first one to start talking again. And then an event happened. Not because of the reason you expect, but because of a reason you didn't expect.

 "Top o' the mornin' to ye, Mr. Kickthroat," olde tyme'd the bartender. "Can I get you the usual?"

 Choose your own adventure! Do you want Elvis to have the usual? Go to page 43. Do you want to take the story in a bit of a different direction? Read on.


 "No, I want something new and exciting."

 Suddenly someone with purple spandex and mirror glasses appeared.

 "Elvis!" said the newcomer. "You must come quickly with me back to 1947, where all blacksmiths have gone extinct and we need one to save the future! I mean present. It would be silly for me to refer to my own time as the future. Haha."

 "Why are you in such a hurry? You're a time traveler."

 "...Huh... Okay, take your time, then."

 "Let's do it."

 The stranger invaded Elvis's personal space and touched his chest, zapping them to 1947. It was as futuristic and awe-inspiring as he'd always imagined:  flying horses, self-robbing banks, and dynamite that could wipe out entire Japanese cities.

 "I'm Wonald, by the way."

 "That's a coincidence. I had a daughter named Wonald once. She got sucked into a black hole and died."

 "Or maybe she just got transported to the future and was stuck there until she could invent time travel and make up an excuse to get you to come to the future with her so she could experiment on you with her questionable new beauty products."

 "Good thing that probably didn't happen."

 "Oh, let me introduce you to my friend Faulty."

 "Greetings, fellow Earth mortal," said Faulty robotically.

 "Really? This is how future people talk?"

 "No, he's just being a jackass."

 Just then some robots from the even more future appeared and killed Faulty, since he would eventually give birth to the guy who would win the war for mankind against the cyborgs. Wonald, meanwhile, showed Elvis around her studio apartment.

 "So over here's the entire apartment. And out there's the rest of the world."

 "What do we do all day here?"

 "Watch the television set."

 "What's that?"

 "It's like a radio, but with images."

 "What's a radio?"

 "It's like real life, but without images."

 "Oh."

 They spent the next several hours watching Bonanza and snacking on off-brand cheese puffs.

 "This sucks. I should have had the usual."

The end




Page 43

 Elvis had the usual. Then nothing noteworthy happened, so the story ended.

The end

The Audience is Hardly Listening

 "Thank you, Baffany, for sharing your leaf collection. For our next act, please welcome Sven Schlotzsky & The Swollen Cajones."
 The annual talent show was the only thing the students of Womp Rat High ever got mildly excited about. Sven and his friends had practiced for months in the drummer's parents' garage. They even sent their demo tape to a record company, who was generous enough to reply, "I'd rather listen to a ruptured duck."

 Schlotzsky and co. jumped onto the stage and did a last check on tuning. The tension in the room was palpable, like a bitch on heat. And by bitch I mean your mom. One female girl student whispered 'omg Sven is soooo gorgeous,' then fainted in the most flimsy womanish way possible (letting the side down).  Derwent, lead guitarist, exposed the crowd to what he liked to call 'the vagina trap' (he wasn't good with words. He envisioned ensnaring hot girls with his musical talent; others imagined a kind of bear-trap-vagina). Notes of hairy crystal filled the air and rose to the ceiling. Another five girls fainted and some of the teachers started having an orgy in the corner. The drums kicked in and the tempo picked up. Sven stepped up to the mic, and was just about to start being fucking awesome, when the nightmarish happened.

 The animals in the zoo next door escaped again. They tore through the wall and had their way with the guys and drank all the punch. Just as Sven was frantically trying to think of a way to salvage the performance, Vanilla Ice himself came out of retirement and started busting out some mad rhymes about animals and stuff. Then a bad thing happened to him and he died.
 The next day Sven called an emergency meeting at his tree house. You're never too old for a tree house. He waited for hours, but his friends never showed up because they're still kids and when their parents say to clean out the fish tank, they mean right now, dammit. Not Sven, though. His parents were mushrooms. Mushrooms were notoriously chill about chores and homework.
 Anyway he spent the night crying and writing about last night's events in his diary like a girl. But in a crazy twist that's never happened in any other story ever, a reply appeared in the diary.

 He watched the words scroll across the page.

'Stop being such a girl.'

 He traced them with his fingers, and found new profound meaning in them. He found himself repeating them to himself while he went about his daily antics. Finally he had a eureka moment. 'Stop being such a girl!' he screamed.

 He realised the diary was not insulting him. It was giving him a tip-off as to the best come back in all of history. From now on, Sven would say these words to anyone at anytime and it always gave the desired results - the person would shut the hell up and Sven would feel like a badass. It even worked when the person you were talking to was a girl!

 That is, until one stormy Thursday night. He was chilling with friends in the park, drinking, because he was in a band and he had an image to uphold.
  

  Deezer, the keyboardist, was showing off his arrest record, in reply to which Sven suggested that he cease having such a lack of Y chromosomes. Deezer didn't find this amusing at all, which in itself is the worst punishment Sven could receive. But to make matters worse, the Deeze went back to Sven's house and chopped his parents up on a salad and sold it to some passing monks.
 Meanwhile WRH announced a second talent show.
 

 Sven prepared for this talent show like he had prepared for no other. For hours each night he practiced pitching his voice juuuuust right. I'll give you a clue - there were a lot of smashed crystal glasses lying around his now mushroomless house.

  The night of the talent show he snuck onto the stage while everyone else was in the backroom getting ready. He tinkered around with the controls on the equipment a bit, then snuck back out, imagining he was wearing a cape and some kind of mask and going 'mwahahahaaaaa'.

 The band began to play. Like before, people orgasmed all over the place and the music rose and rose and reached its peak as Sven stepped up to the mic.

 But this time, instead of preparing to sing fricking awesome, he took a deep breath and went 'EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!'

 The amp nearest Deezer blew out the screech of Sven's voice a billion zillion times louder than any of the other amps, thanks to Sven's pre-show tinkering.

 Deezer experienced what can only be described as rape of the ear, except with less blood and diseases. Everything was strangely quiet. People moved about but there was no sound. What's going on? He could see Sven's big st00pid st00pid face in front of him, his mouth saying some words. 

 'What?'

 'I said that'll teach you to eat my parents, you schmuck! And btw you SUCK at keyboard! I never wanted you in the band anyway, it was Derwent's idea!'

 'What?'

 Sven slowly began to realise that he had deafened Deezer. Ohhhh the sweet sweet irony. For now he couldn't communicate to him the fact that he just totally got some hot sweet steaming revenge on him. Oh, the shame! Oh, the pity! Oh wait, it's okay, that's why notepads were invented.

 Sven carefully wrote 'YOU SUCK' on a notepad and threw it at Deezer's deaf face. 

 As an afterthought, he picked up his pen again and wrote, 'P.S. Stop being such a girl.' He threw this, too.
 

  "Um, Sven," Derwent tapped on his shoulder. "We want you to leave the band. I'm sorry. You're just too much of a trouble maker."
 "Can't we at least finish this song first?" They were right in the middle of My Little Choo Choo.
 "No. Go away."
 The next few years brought on endless legal battles for the rights to the name "Swollen Cajones." My Little Choo Choo went on to be a big hit. Their mothers were reportedly very proud.

The end