Timelordwho wrote:
Making sense is not allowed in the asylum
Oh the Feast of St. Stephen, I was driving my hearse to the whole-sale liverwurst outlet when suddenly a hermaphrodite in a piano truck backed out of a crackhouse driveway, and, as my shoes caught fire, I pirouetted across Boris Karloff Boulevard, slapping the truckdriver six times ni the loins with a Chattanooga road map, even though he was humming "The Pussycat Song."