Buster's Dream, Part One
When one ponders the stuffing that stuffs the stuff that dreams are made of, be sure to pull apart the cockamammy amalgamation of Buster's dream thast makes polyester look real and cut from one cloth. The dream began with a tidal wave chasing the crude clown and his accidental passenger. They held hands tightly enough to cut the blood off from Mr Fuckhead's right side and send it pulasting to a lower but more central location. The wave like some aquaeous Godzilla-Genie arched its death-dealing scimitar over the couples'heads while they ran for their lives.
Before either of the three-legged racers could break their wished for victory tape the watery demon washes over their bodies turning them turvy-topsy all the while they clutched desperately to the hand of each other. Caught in the multiple arms of this Shiva-Genie, they were shaken and shook till all the loose change in their pockets and brains were emptied. Bully that it was the tidal monster jettisoned them like so much jetsom and left them flat like so much flotsom upon a beautiful sandy beach. Still holding hands the castaway couple coughed and sputtered their way to a state of unconsciousness. They slept the sleep of the dead for two days and three nights. Finally they awoke unsurely and suddenly to a strange sucking on all twenty of their toes. . .