What's the two-headed mailman doing eye-fucking that un-enveloping arcade game? In a room of pure oatmeal forged from LSD, you're just so many dots and checks and stripes and vomit-colored specks nursing on the appendages of that badly patched-together Sims clown.
Part of a society of neon thumbs on the emetic disco ball prior to its slow decline in a pet cemetery as a Halloween hairball casually sleeping off its variegated scales.
The veneer of a thonged mushroom much needed by the post-apocalyptic office cubicle not too much of it else the desk might end up looking like Manga boobs on Ritalin bouncing beneath a stale weave of led.
At the controls of the vending machine a Nazi's abused foam rubber pet monkey teen heartthrob catamite just released from the same dreary office cubicle where on its desk a friendly centipede demonstrated the art of teleportation bit by segmented bit from one edge of the desk to the other while somehow managing to midway arrange a hundred tiny dirty sneakers in the shape of a pentagram in the midst of which took place a form of interspecies congeniality consisting of dust motes and blinding sparks.
Briefcase-flavored brainwashing like geriatric martial arts snorted legs first the dry psychic cyclones on the inevitable comedown hand-standing in freshly vacuumed amnesia.