The conclusion to PIGS IN SPACE
Then the space aliens arrived.
They were big like dinosaurs. Like really big dinosaurs, but not like tyrranosaurus rex or brontosaurus, which was not a dinosaur anyway. They had big heads, big hands, and a toothy grin when they wanted to smile. They wanted to smile a lot, because they would smile before they ate something. Fortunately for the pioneers, they did not want to eat them. The space aliens wanted to eat chairs. Regardless of what the chairs were made of, the dinosaurs liked to eat them, with ketchup. This was the problem; there was not a lot of ketchup on the moon.
What could the pioneers do? Their first thought was to call for the United States government to send up ketchup, but instead, they decided to ask the dinosaur space aliens to leave. The aliens couldn’t decide, so the humans decided to have a party for them. That was then they set off fireworks and had a musical band play film scores from the early twenty first century, especially all the pieces with lots of percussion and drums, even though percussion and drums were essentially the same thing, they did not know that. So the musicians, who did know that, played very loudly and beat on the drum all the time. The dinosaurs, after their tasty but ultimately unsatisfying meal of chairs, thought that the music was a bit too loud for them, but they were too polite to say anything, which, based on the music that was playing so loudly, probably required Vogon poetry to appreciate appropriately.
Let me try writing some Vogon poetry now:
Hark, my pretty violins with the base drums beating you out. I have only
Two hundred words to say how very bad this
Whole bit of prose is, and it would be so much more moving
If I were to hurt myself instead of complaining and whining about it.
See, I can not write good Vogon poetry, either, but that’s an oxymoron anyway. Jasper was not an oxymoron and he knew, if the dinosaur space aliens were allowed to leave, they would open the door to future NaNo Writers trying to take over the universe. I forgot to eat my last York Peppermint Patty, so pardon me while I eat it.
I do not know how I feel about finishting this novel with basic stream of consciousness idiocy, but hey! What is his name from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy did it, so why can not i? I only have about fifty - no, make that forty four more words to finish and then I can validate this garbage and destroy it. It was not a good year for National Novel Writing Month. I am supposed to be a good example of making the good effort to win, but I already hate this novel so much that there is not much I could
They were big like dinosaurs. Like really big dinosaurs, but not like tyrranosaurus rex or brontosaurus, which was not a dinosaur anyway. They had big heads, big hands, and a toothy grin when they wanted to smile. They wanted to smile a lot, because they would smile before they ate something. Fortunately for the pioneers, they did not want to eat them. The space aliens wanted to eat chairs. Regardless of what the chairs were made of, the dinosaurs liked to eat them, with ketchup. This was the problem; there was not a lot of ketchup on the moon.
What could the pioneers do? Their first thought was to call for the United States government to send up ketchup, but instead, they decided to ask the dinosaur space aliens to leave. The aliens couldn’t decide, so the humans decided to have a party for them. That was then they set off fireworks and had a musical band play film scores from the early twenty first century, especially all the pieces with lots of percussion and drums, even though percussion and drums were essentially the same thing, they did not know that. So the musicians, who did know that, played very loudly and beat on the drum all the time. The dinosaurs, after their tasty but ultimately unsatisfying meal of chairs, thought that the music was a bit too loud for them, but they were too polite to say anything, which, based on the music that was playing so loudly, probably required Vogon poetry to appreciate appropriately.
Let me try writing some Vogon poetry now:
Hark, my pretty violins with the base drums beating you out. I have only
Two hundred words to say how very bad this
Whole bit of prose is, and it would be so much more moving
If I were to hurt myself instead of complaining and whining about it.
See, I can not write good Vogon poetry, either, but that’s an oxymoron anyway. Jasper was not an oxymoron and he knew, if the dinosaur space aliens were allowed to leave, they would open the door to future NaNo Writers trying to take over the universe. I forgot to eat my last York Peppermint Patty, so pardon me while I eat it.
I do not know how I feel about finishting this novel with basic stream of consciousness idiocy, but hey! What is his name from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy did it, so why can not i? I only have about fifty - no, make that forty four more words to finish and then I can validate this garbage and destroy it. It was not a good year for National Novel Writing Month. I am supposed to be a good example of making the good effort to win, but I already hate this novel so much that there is not much I could