My father, nephew, longtime companion, deceased mule train, Uncle Nard, Androgynocuspidoor and I are honored to invite you-all to a spirited eye-punting tournament: Two-fisted Winkless Taxidermy Tough-off 2002. We'll be hosting the tussle at our favorite elitist watering hole, the Indolent Anteater -- where lucky contestants will be *eligible to win lifetime supplies of Glogluglag*, America's favorite tamarind-flavored chewable mothball subtitute. Drinks are on the 'Nard until seven. Doors open at eight.

See, the thing is, there's this man? Named Hortense Biquand Anyoto
Fambraugh, Sr.? Whose brother's uncle's pet barbiturate believes that
terns are actually kinetic bathtubs? And, well, the uncle's friend,
Mammalando? Who's really a miniature skating rink when you wash off all
the geometrical patterns in clay affixed to his mammillae? Believes that
the barbiturate is mistaken in its suspicion about the terns. So,
basically, that baboon who lives in the elevator -- you know, the one with
the transparent buttocks you've seen on Good Morning, America? -- is
traipsing around with several mono-calibrated glass eyes glued to his fur
-- yeah, the ones that were donated to cyclopian terns (and the left socket
of the barbiturate, of course) by that international hemp tycoon in 1998.
Which is why the barbiturate keeps bumping its capsule against
tamarind-flavored pelican surrogates, which is the whole reason we needed
to throw this party in the first place: To buy a metal forehead plate for
the human migraine who lives in the bathtub when Mammalando's working at
that artificial nipple factory on Bilk Street West on alternate weekends --
even though it's Mammalando who needs the work, if you know what I'm
saying.