Great Adventures & Whimsical Disembowelment (GAWD) periodical probably presents an exclusive interview with belly button fluff collector and irreverent quote enthusiast, the totally existing cosmic bard, that is, sir P.H.Clockword (PHC).
GAWD: Welcome sir Clockword. It is an honor to hold you here against your will. Why is it that you rarely give interviews?
PHC: Oh but indubitably, the honor is all yours. The answer to your question is: because, I don't always exist.
GAWD: Can you elaborate?
PHC: Picture it this way: much like the poo which is cast into the abyssal waters of the toilet, only when the sphincter loosens up, so will I, vocalize my wisdom turd into the sewers of your ears, when the right amount of pressure has been released.
GAWD: Does that particular cut of your jib have to do with the fact that you're tied with unbison gut rope to the dematerializer chair?
PHC: Probably with the karmic broccoli I had for lunch.
GAWD: Fair enough. So, we all here, in the GAWD periodical, have a great admiration for your work with carrots. See that large werecarrot statue, next to Linda the spaghetti fingered secretary who's having a really hard time typing any of this down? That's a real, wild werecarrot, unrooted and embalmed with love for the hate we hoard for you. An ode to P.H. Clockword, if you will.
PHC: It's a large upside-down orange chode.
GAWD: No, look. It has a green top. That's how you can tell.
PHC: Pretty sure these are two avocados.
GAWD: Well, I guess it's a matter of perspective. We are all bold advocatos of multiple interpretations of vegetable anatomy. But enough about us, telling you about us. Please, tell us more about ourselves.
PHC: You are the highest ranking crooks of the lowest journalistic circles. The nutter of the gutter. The ink butt-stains on dung-smeared toilet paper. Your para-paparazzi drop from the skies in anachronistic parasuits celebrating a bygone era of exploding photographic machines, immortalizing in unfocused shots, curious creatures roaming the perennial halls of the Cosmic Gallery. There is no unbison. What there is, is a word describing the mere understanding of its non existence, or the subset containing every other creature which is not a bison. So, I can't really be tied here with unbison gut rope. Therefore, I'm free. Logic is taking over this interview.
GAWD: No, don't move! On the press of a button the dematerializer chair will turn you into toothpaste. See the gang of hippies smoking, completely aloof, beyond the rooking grass? Look, one of them just caught on fire. They are the Press of the Button. Having steered their journalistic career away from writing about post-vegan utopias on their cuberspace blog, they are now wholesomely engaged in covering all things button. You must have heard their monthly gazette, 'The Coat's Favorite Jewel' or at least browsed on your portable telegraph through Button App. I hear sites like 'Butt On', 'Un-Button' and 'Butt by the ton' are hugely popular these days. Unlike their failed attempt to include more brutal instruments of the law enforcement among their readers, with the short-lived, yet aptly titled issue of 'Button – but with an A and one T', the Press of the Button will press an issue about how we turned you into unholey buttons. After, I press the big red button in front of you.
PHC: You can't dematerialize me, fool. I'm an idea.
GAWD: Whose idea?
PHC: I'm my idea.
GAWD: Well, here's another idea Mr Brainstorm.
PHC: It's P.H.Clockword. But you can call me Excelsior, or Dynamotronic, or maybe something like, hey you. It's nice to keep things informal from time to time. Getting to know the people behind the punctilious mask of “The Job”.
GAWD: No! Your mind tricks won't work on us. We have been training our whole lives, slogging through reality television and cook shows. We have burned the candle in search of Prince Cohones' upskirts, the world didn't know, it didn't want to see. We know, how President Butterbutt likes to suck on Vicar Nigel’s clipped toe nails right before he goes to sleep. We know, what became of the reparation money for the children's extra-dimensional playground incident. When that photon hydra burned through and blinded the audience, who could not see, as the kids were being turned into musical confetti. We love that boat, man. In fact, we're on it right now. How'd you like that reality-bending crap I'm pulling you? Sound the horn boys, cause we're about to get all the saucy, juicy, mouthwatering, kajizzem. The public opinion is ours to steer forever Clockword. Much like this boat, it's a person-made* thing. It is over. We are ready. You will spill the beans.
PHC: Which beans?
GAWD: There is a bucket of magical beans beside you. Go ahead. Spill them! C'mon! Make my day, Clark.
PHC: Fitting context.
GAWD: Thanks. Now Spill 'em.
PHC: OK, then. Here's how it unfolds. I grab the beans with one hand and with the other, I reach into your belly and remove your appendix, which was going to be a problem for you in the future either way, resulting in you feeling eternally indebted to me. Now, with a third hand, I had hidden all along in my hat, I pull a fancy bowl out of my ass, but only figuratively. Then, I use one of the flaming button hippies to set your hair on fire and place the bowl containing the beans and the better part of my college years on top. Boily-boily beans - the shameless cow is ill - I never got to meat - cause of my boily-boily beans, I sing, while I make bean-soup in your skull.
GAWD: You can't do this.
PHC: Yes, I can. I'm writing this.
GAWD: No, you're not.
PHC: Yes, I am.
GAWD: Then why do you make me disagree with you?
PHC: To build tension for the readers. Now get in that soup.
GAWD: No please, don't! Not the soup! Is it because of all the butt jokes? Look, I'm sorry. I'm a professional, dude. You can't get really creative on a daily basis. Butt jokes are beyond time. People don't need to try hard to get behind them. I'm just doing my part. You said it. You are the one actually doing all the butt jokes. I believe you. Now please, don't make me jump in the soup.
PHC: SILENCE! Your side of the story is not one half...
GAWD: Don't say it.
PHC: ...but whole.
GAWD: You said butthole.
PHC: And now, in a somersault maneuver you dive into the expanding bean soup bowl. The soup water smells of a thousand farts, as the angry beans sprout invisible threads wrapping swiftly around your flailing body.
GAWD: (incoherent screaming coming from beneath the soup surface)
PHC: You are my puppet.
GAWD: (more incoherent screaming) You sa...stic basta... (sound of raging water, a seagull having a verbal argument with a stork about the origin of babies, someone burping the arrows of time which pinpoint us all. Then silence.)
* Instead of using the term man-made thing, the author of this article decided it is important to let the people know, that person, is also a regressive term, and now prefers beingswhorefusetheyaremonkeysbutstillbehavelikeones – with spaces.