Farts of a broken mind

[Solipsis]

When coming down off a lot of K and feeling poured into the unconfortable mold of my own skin and existance again, I got typical creative compulsions, kind of dark, a few of which I translated:

I dream. What I dream of is that someone tells me: "Life is a party, but you have to hang up your the garlands yourself.".
I feel incredibly happy knowing that life's a party, a brilliant party indeed, but I look down and see two spastic Tyrannosaurus Rex arms dangling beside my body that make it impossible to decorate anything. Is life still a party if no garlands are hanging from the ceiling and you are involuntarily molesting your own face with limbs that merely have unuseful talents like bending dangerously in unnatural angles?

People are sweet and are offering help. "Thére", they point, "hang them from here to there if you want to make it cozy.". "At least lay down some coasters so that it looks like the real deal, and some cheese.".

But I absolutely loathe cheese and startle awake, bathing in sweat and saliva. Even in the halfdark I can tell there are no garlands hanging in my bedroom. Only some flypaper is draped in sticky spirals, able to catch nothing but a single pipistrelle.

In the corner of the room a gypsy snores loudly and I see no chance of picking up my nightmare where I left off. I stand up, make a hottie, tuck in the gypsy neatly in his bedstead and jam his thumb into his own mouth. On the rebound I consider giving cheese a second chance. Moreover, those cows can't all be wrong, can they?

The prime-minister of Japan is deeply concerned. Two nuclear bombs have already fallen and now a disaster involving a tsunami and a bunch of nuclear reactors has passed as well. At this rate, the options are really starting to swindle...
He sits with his hands in his pockets [imperfect translation, should be hair], or rather his straight pubic hair, since his head is as bald as a billiard ball and the Japanese have terrible beard growth.

Tears dwell in his eyes as he is consoled by his mother. "Don't cry, Yoshimuru", crows the ancient woman, who walks bent like a banana and is wrinkled like an ugli fruit, "You'll surely think of something. Nota bene, there is 200 pounds of enriched uranium in the cellar, gathering dust like there is no tomorrow!".

Alas she is mere moments too late, he has already committed suicide out of shame.

(Bundled in: "The perfectly normal adventures of Ruurd, the colorblind aura-reader")

"Do you know if I'm too late for the quarter past twelve train?", asks Mohammed of a passerby.
Who responds: "I don't believe so.".
"Death to the infidels", says Mohammed.
Et cetera.

Butt naked a tortoise is walking down the street. He has no name borrowed from a Renaissance painter, nor any ninja skills. He never won a race by a hare and he definitely has no experience carrying the world assisted by a bunch of elephants.
Slow as thick excrement he shuffles along the pavement which is meant for traffic even slower than that on the normal sidewalk.
He gambled away his shell playing poker, thus homeless he has to hustle together his cubby-hole like a hermit crab.
He suffers of the tortoise-blues and fears with pain in his heart that it could be terminal.

 

[JahSEEuS]

I enjoy the tortoise story. Feel like it could be fleshed out if you so desire.