GENE DEFECT ON A TINY PIECE OF FOIL

I moved my new car, angrily, after the 3D printer vomited it out. I didn’t want to be parked next to one of the printer’s other aberrant creations: a selfish pig in an igloo. ‘The way to hell is canned – is a pizza chain oriented along the vector of the glittering dolphin’s thigh,’ the pig told me as I peered in and wondered if it thought either of us was parked in the wrong place. ‘The one who melts first under the skull street lamps is parked in the wrong place.’ I kept the following rude assumption to myself: that it, not I, was parked in the wrong place.

Fragments of Ben Nye rape makeup hit the fan and was karateed by the blades into the form of yet another new breed of worthless sentience: a switchboard operator sunbathing in a straightjacket. Lights blip crazily around him – a dragonfly lightsaber fight jumping on the bed to a banned dancefloor anthem. The weather update deliberately intimidates us with promises of an utopia made of crude materials gorging on fractals. I like the switchboard operator’s worthless handling of the console. To wit: an atom-based stunt based on the ancient technique of the ‘squirm.’

One of the partners in couples therapy was a mechanical fish. The therapist, clad in micro-mesh, assessed the situation from a bunker underneath the maximum security prison where his patients were housed with a periscope jammed nonlethally through the McRib in the hands of the non-mechanical fish partner. The distraught relationship he was trying to remedy was cargo lined in fish oil due to be sent to a Mexican border town the next day, where it would be detonated in a display of highly eclectic, hugely disorientating fireworks to celebrate the opening of a new bridge and the erection of a Morgan Freeman statue, his surgical mask bulging on the hour as the iconic actor burps grenades, to mark the passage of time.