Baked Alaska penetrates Barky's blameless bed bug bomb burglar brain as he sheds karma flakes on the stealth jury. "Maps," he spouts with a cranberry twist, lapsing like Mecca in a toolbox. Distracting swarms of microwave clams insert frozen tofu burgers into Barky's ideology as he searches frantically for his left hand. "Gentlemen," he laughs pedantically, wheezing through fields of glazed clay pigeons, "We are distributed here for a specific intent; an intent which --" At which point he is arrested by chrome splotches of continuity and thrown growling into stork prison.

"Ugh," he morts in asprin as he fluxes into lax dimensionality and melds orgasmically with waxing folds of lunar subcultures, seeping ever-so-conservatively through his sincere rubber clockwork like an electrostatic eggbeater on probation until his feet relax and his head explodes in a writhing vacuum tube of commercial granola. Digitized shards of gleaming darkness flop over flaps of coagulated doom while upwards green slime flows voluminously outwards, taking with it educational T.V., mortality, and a tired, sagging picture of Ethel Merman.

"Darling, would you please please pass the salt?" shouts Belthorp McFoo to his lovely wife, a fellow prisoner, over the loudening deaf of the expulsion as a layer of brain slaps onto his bald scalp like airborne bacon bits. Thelma, a well-hewn adversary with two barn doors and false impressionist cheese for eyelashes, wraps a warped chronicle around his blank neck without leafing the broom.

The expulsion continues, flowing baked alaska and newsprint turkey burgers earthward in a grotesque statistical basket weaving fluke. Ploughed liver oozes on breathless vodoo torque walls, exposing lifeless hemoglobin rot and slithering arthropods which Thelma woos in a flash of insight and potato salad, screening suddenly: "Belthorp! The water mane is belching baked alaska and celibate mud flap breath mask flagstone accellerators!" But Thelma is milliseconds late and Belthorp has already flung himself towards the force of the expression, dodging lifeless bottle tops, replicas of WWII battleships, beef fried rice, carnation instant breakfast, a pair of freshly killed meat inspectors, numerous McDonald products, dogs, gears, toast, galaxies, rib cages, overpriced donuts, stabilizing rotors, suture, lens caps, professional boxers, unmatched socks, telephone receivers, truth, running shoes, staples, bacon bits, bottles of wine cooler, xerox machines, birth certificates, windfall profits, and midnight snacks until he fuses wholly with Barky's total being in a giant cosmic committee; until he is simultaneously melding with every single object which flees from Barky's sneezing head in a bowling baked alaska brouhaha.

"Hey!" spleens Thelma in a midnight spoon mood, "I'm zealous!"