The -Yoghurt Story- Collective.

[Angilwingz]

You'll never guess what I'm doing now...

...but if you do guess, I'll give you 100 gold.  

[Ithaya]

I'm thouroughly disappointed that no-one updated this in my absence.  

[Ithaya]

This tasted truly divine, if you combined it with sufficient quantity of powdered arsenic. Nobody did though, unsurprisingly! Did they know? wondered St. John Muffonlegs to his toilet. The toilet casually dismissed this lunacy as thoroughly irresponsible and rather dull.
Muffonlegs was unfazed, though rather fazed, which rather complicated his genital surgery with Henry Flotsom's bizzarely shaped barrel. Named Gerry Barrelwether, whose uncle served aboard HMS Pinafore as a seamstress and man of great gender confusion, and easy virtue.
This easy virtue had previously belonged to St. James Muffinlegs, but was purloin'd by Herman Kfwible under sage advice from Hendry Flotsam.
Who are these lady-boys? You may enquire? Well, Toby, the Essex tart, has been dangling his bizzarely proportioned and egregiously betentacled lemon from Edinburgh Castle's loftiest turret, jokingly named Jim.
This caused immeasurable, yet well-defined, lengths of curtain fabric to converse, flirtatiously, with Gordon Gibbler.
Gibbler rallied magnificently although he was rather hindered by Hubert Fragsworthy, who has no teeth and rather unusual personal habits, which were best unspoken.
All these people, in their tweeds, were one woman, its only purpose to demolish and amuse the native educated small rodents that lived there.
Following these 'rodents', was Bram Stoker, clad fairly casually in a kimono as he traversed the long, arduous trail, strewn with exciting underwear and positively charged lepers exhaltantly waving their genitalia in mesmerising but disintegrating circles.
Bezzlerberry Grizzleheim, the chairman for sillynameseuphamismsnicknamesthicknamesakasAK47sandM16s in the department of Welsh sheep, said Rogerinko Dimblehurst in various voices invoking images of an illegal nature that Dierdre Sumberworth found sinfully arousing.

Meanwhile, Xavier McFrankencircus was gurning at the PM's dog, which consequently imploded.
Markstable Dunnington found the still-smoking collar in his soup. Markstable Dunnington found this unpalatable, although his wife had no face. Subsequently Markstable Dunnington found Markstable Dunnington's whip.
Henry John Crapworth-Spartan found Markstable Dunnington an identity bracelet named 'Markstable Dunnington'.
Markstable Dunnington found this intensely annoying. Markstable Dunnington found repetition annoying. Cecil found repetition annoying. Yet Markstable Dunnington found Cecil annoying. Repetition found Markstable Dunnington's identity bracelet. Moving swiftly on; Identity discovered Death, Repetition found Cecil, and we all tired of silly repetition of Markstable Frogthorpe, though nobody found Markstable Dunnington palatable when repeated.

A whole aeon, producing silly names, found a very very very very spiffing way of making potato tea. Potato tea, not proper tea. It's always much better with actual tealeaves.




Up to page 116
 

[Ithaya]

Bumsalad the Crow was bullied, obviously. This saddened him, so he ran, accidentally, into a small, biconcave sheep. This rare sheep was, unusually, biconcave. Biconcavity', began Francostinian, upset. Biconcave goats are common, surprisingly.
Concavity, concavity, there's no business like concavity in sex. Thank God. Triconvexity however, in men, causes fatal erection of orange tents.
Manhuffle Mcgrimm erected his tent due to his disfunctional identity bracelet. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...OOOOOOOOOO...OOOOOOOOOOOOOO said Jim, somewhat elongatedly. The bear sighed. T
hen died. Unexplainedly. His mother, Beatrice, Queen of Sheba, who ruled Paraguay, ate banana yoghurt whilst quashing revolution, dance dance revolution, with lemon sole.
However, unrequited circumstances failed to compensate for Saul's enormous, scratch that, GIGANMONGOUS index finger which wriggled and wriggled somewhat reminiscent of Illy's large and lurid beige pizza.
Markstable Dunnington found his name irritating because of emancipated antelope continually indicating rabidly athiestic monarchs by means of yoghurt coated biscuits which Markstable Dunnington ate with vigour. Markstable Dunnington found them deeply arousing in a special...and invigorating way. Markstable Dunnington found Darkstable Munnington quite found Unkstable quite eratically phrased. However Stablemark Munstingdun didn't. But Sherlock said "No s**t, me;" went to market.

Basil was worried. Basil had found an actuary in the Pope's bedroom. this worried him. The Pope's bedroom, filled with Prada and many other decaying corpses, suddenly became quite animated and started tap-dancing on the iPod. The iPod broke and Markstable Dunnington burst into tears.

"Why must such lucid dogs recoil against the man?" questioned the officer after a pause.
... ... ... The next day, the parish of Murder's Bottom underwent rigourous examination by oily raccoons and



Up to page 122  

[Ithaya]

The Yoghurt Story

One rainy day, I ate yoghurt that was not profusely and irreverently bollocks'd up royally but was placed with utmost omniscience into my throat with aid of an immensely large yet, strangely, unobtrusive spade, which had an uncanny ability to be almost, yet not quite obsessively green. Also, it could have been subjected to torturous regimes including The Liberal Democrats and lacy underwear, but not forgetting whips, handcuffs and cheese-based gloop along with a large helping of yoghurt based fun.
Furthermore, I prostrain the intolerable amount that I have to donate to the Symbionese Liberators and therefore take, with fervent speed, an endless age in order to write an end to each of his poems.
Beauty of the beast could only ever, in all fairness, truly be sought with a map laden with yoghurt, and a houseplant so righteously named Marvin, the plant till it wilted and became a small, yet brown cow.
There was not much left of anything, really, except for yoghurt - and of course, some fine tea-tree oil. Sadly, tea-tree oil is absolutely disgusting.
So then a strain of ovarian joy came over a man named Benethon, of whom little is known, except for variable resistors being his favourite electronic component. Of course, he could never understand his fingernails, which were, rather oddly, made of yoghurt.
And something else happened, of which Lord Bath is not immediately concerned. However, his son would be, except for the fact that many lemmings are not suicidal, because that myth isn't really true. In conclusion, it is Disney bullshit. However, the bunny disagreed, for Easter is joyful, yet somehow melancholy, during the same period. And the bunny decided that it didn't make sense, and wanted to honourably commit seppuku.
The Easter chick wasn't that sad, because it had LOADS of caffeine and some yoghurt, and tea too. While sniffing some reasonably priced glue, and shoving vodka in the teapot.
Quietly, Gaulia snuck towards the teapot, when the giraffe ate it's own head and foot, stripy rainbow scarf, simultaneously humming the GBG's national anthem, that sounds as tuneful as a burst of flatulence, which in fact came from a beans-eating hippopotamus quite tunefully, surprisingly Universal rhythm.
Unfortunately, when the aardvark decided to purchase yoghurt-making hamsters, life became more difficult in Surrey, for lactating pensioners voted New Labour and didn't get much more yoghurt until later on, by which time the running joke had become somewhat - but not entirely - tiresome.

Although the inventor had forgotten what he was doing when the pile of plums decided to float and spray yoghurt all over the suicidal axe maniac who was called Jim the Harmless. Perhaps if he wasn't a homosexual, he would know a woman's pleasure more profoundly than Nebelstern. It was never going to happen, though, so with a sparkle said Jim, purloined, "I like bananas. Bananas like me. We're a banana tree loving family", and so on and so forth until they all ate some lovely yoghurt mixed with tea, which was more disgusting than assumed previously.
Although there were some hamsters miscellaneously scattered widely over the Cairngorms for some reason unbeknownst to me, for in Scotland it's the custom to skin English pansies in June.
However, Arnold the caterpillar was not a Rastafarian. Therefore a great battologist erroneously encased everyone in strawberry yoghurt.
Suddenly, a rather strange smell arose from the yoghurt and also Invictus. So then everyone evacuated the area and ran off jumping into a large, marmite-filled hot tub. However, Illyrianth and Invictus were somewhere alone together, doing something with objects not mentioned.
Then a frighteningly coloured just about the previously trouser leg appeared behind Illyrianth's head, floating mentioned unmentioned objects which suddenly became mentioned. Invictus began flying through space and time with hippocampus tails flying every which-way, when toast becomes very OLD destabilising the essential nutrients, he would become most flaccid, and, indeed, lax to the point of lethargy, despite infrequent murmurs of too much yoghurt defiling the channels or the BBC in defiance of all common decency and uncommon indecency, not to mention minimum standard regulations. And, of course, the fact that there is no roseability. And therefore, failed to write an end to each of his poems. Again.
So, off went piggy old man, having none of the blatantly antiestablishment impudence, we must all worship God Gaulia. If not, there will be deaths. Many, many, many deaths of everyone, mostly Veritas members, but also the entire human population, except the frogs of whom most were already dead or human anyway.
One day, there went a skipping, bonnie lass whose name was Annihilaltatron 18,000 plus, and many a deadly ninja hamster oft reviewed many fabulously polished chrome pots of yoghurt.
The next day, Invictus and Illyrianth went behind a tree, so that they could make yoghurt, although they also made hot chocolate due to the extreme cold that plagued them in their nakedness. As they fondled a pot of Ukrainian cabbage thieves. Before being arrested and carried into a large brothel, at which time was rather busy in preparation for a royal visit, for the Queen was rather horny for an elderly woman named Illy, who, by chance, had just entered the royal gardens a week earlier to perform reconnaissance for her pornographic dance routine. This dance was banned for obvious reasons, in several countries except Australia, where there's more blindfolds and perverts. Illy is VERY OLD-ham. Invictus has mountains of shiny, shiny gold, which he uses to lure children into his yoghurt lab and make sandcastles from severed toes. Warnings were given, yet none appreciated just how dangerous this most reckless gerbil-juggling psychiatrist could become.
Moreover, when the incessant age comments became the final straw, Owen was made won't involve dismemberment, therefore he ran in headlong, you're pretty darned confused about dodgy curry and bindi manufacturers, however bindi is the spawn of someone that died in thoroughly unpleasant yoghurt-related nastiness.
Meanwhile, the yoghurt thread was emptying all too fast for Invi's taste, due to lack of interest. HOWEVER, Illy is very amusing when she's a lemon, although up and about like a dog of an occasion, or a horse or a bat or a yoghurt, yet somehow like a large cat on viagra.
Yet in a mad institute, people are very badly mistreated, though nobody cares because they're tits and arse holes and yoghurt whores and tea-tramps with various implements of yoghurty delight designed to arouse.
The ancient mariners in Leamingston Spa often resort to woolly hat bobbles and small turtles in willow wattles due to the excess pizza crust that lies within the loch's depths.

When the Austrian alpine horn player exceeds his mark and urinates over four roast onions, every other Saturday in shaded orchards outside of Croydon on wheelbarrows. Nevertheless, this has nothing to compare noses with cabinet politicians in frilly underwear and leather boots donning many a poodle mask.
Also, the Fat Man from Austin Powers, and Pac Man’s fiancé, became a porn star featuring in many bizarrely shaped bluebells filled with yoghurt, eating cheese marmosets with an indefatigable Lego building skill.
Razkavian monks are liable to implode rather funky looking ginger Afro wigs with loads of yoghurt and pie in a corkscrew with a cherry and a cat balanced on Arivel's favourite old bookshelf.
Suddenly, a rather large wombat named Simon jumped upon his nose. It looked rather painful, however was not! Illyrianth said to Owen, "...Stop talking making jokes about how much yoghurt I have concealed in Invictus!" How she got it up at her flat in Islington was a wonder because the lift hurt her very much in the nicest way possible.
During all this, Destiny Dee changed into a large cavalcade of yoghurt surmounted by a thunderous roaring pig encrusted in omelettes which were rather elderly, despite Gaulia's cooking new ones in order to coat Owen in omelettey goodness. He, however, objected to this, because he was really Nebelstern in disguise. "Forget ye thy eyes and ne'er displace of 'tis Wakizashi that pwns!..." said the giant n****e hesitantly.
The next day, disaster struck! All the villagers died in a freak show. The end was nigh. Yoghurt reigned supreme all throughout the land with an iron spoon. A revolution had gripped the leader by the balls and castrated his homosexual lover allegedly entirely accidentally with a pair of heavy duty titanium plated, reinforced garden shears. "However, this is not time to garden", she said, her machine manufactured mangle was broken and respired with argon leaving only a thong unwashed, which decayed and decomposed leaving a residue of nasty, mouldy yoghurt.
It has always been remarked that the essence of balsamic vinegar shall one day overthrow the yoghurt and be overlord of all middle England, notwithstanding any outlying hamlets or small pockets of yoghurt-related industry, whatever those who run them say.
On a new conurbation in Bucharest, the new ambassador, one Joseph Asepholakiatatatatatatatatianistosphelopagastionelestolplostic, shortened his surname to just "Ack" but added 'tic' to his list just for the babe magnetism-induced Ferris wheel mania and the demi-euphoric High Priestess of Invictus' Temple.
Furthermore, this was emphasised by her massive, nay, gargantuan lawnmower bought on sale in Dixons.
Meanwhile, anaerobic respiration was setting in, due to mitigating circumstances and a release of lactic acid causing oxygen debt and bad cramp, which really sucked. But of course, Gaulia and Arivel were secretly conspiring to rule teh Gaian British Guild and tax oxygen at excessively high prices. When they were defeated by Owen, Aisa and every other member to their dismay and grievous shock, there was no yoghurt in the yoghurt fortress, merely tea. TEA, DAMNIT!
Tea, whilst having loads and loads and loads of flavours, is actually an agent of The Dark Side. This transpired when Obi Wan Kenobi took umbrage over the pert, young Illyrianth, many years before she became Queen of Naboo. This, although being completely bollocks, is somehow advantageous, possibly due to the utter lack of yoghurt, otherwise, there are not many baboons imitating Illyrianth, though there are Illyrianth looking baboons with luminescent, oversized and a multitude of hairy coconuts bamboozled Ice Illusion in addition to being overly jealous and annoyingly cruel.
*Something blows up. *
"RUN, YOU BASTARDS!"
Then, everyone RAN, because they're bastards. It's these bastards who preceded Shemot, yet succeeded La-lu in accession to the holy artichoke of Hitler's Reich in three campervans.
Then they are utter shits, and rather accident prone, despite great pains in training yoghurt not to be too absorbed by a rather large yet rather flabby killer monkey spoon, since said spoon is a spork, Arivel turned Scottish citizens into sheep covered in cheese balls and loads of mango chutney on top of spaghetti, all covered by the BBC former dictator general who, despite being a small rodent drunken on wine, has a reciprocating yoghurt on a small marsupial lion. This lion was... very strange indeed. It had cholera. It also had cancer, mange and a worryingly large lust for yoghurty young girls. Alas, these girls were extinct, as was the essence of Marxist-Trotskyite rebellion in a place not far from Dull. "Dull?" said he, with utmost vehemence, for 'twas Dull that single-handedly perfected the Eastern art of yoghurting. Brakislava, to be exact, was the perpetrator of my only sin of spirit, wanting only to dominate unequivocally and rid me of this raging fire that burns inside my yoghurty bosom. However, this was null and void, more so than the lion rat that once was kept by Francis the powerful and blatantly left wing ruler of our mango farm/restaurant named Francis' Yoghurty poghurty place of yoghurtness. 20km west of this lay Bucharest, a small yoghurt plantation, directly below the ozone-hole of brutal death. But this was fatally undermined by the fact that the Yoghurt Queen was only but one yard away from the yoghurt of brutal death.
This meant that the brutal death was imminent upon many innocent lemmings, who, in disguise, dwelt amongst the furry young wombats. Said furry wombats in a most eloquent manner, spoke to a tree. The tree then said, "Why lemmings?" The reply being "Because they are a most yoghurty but not suicidal breed of accountant.". Then the tree suddenly exploded and fell over backwards into a mirror.
As a consequence, Gaia went slowly. This was not very helpful to its frequenters. In short, it wasn't a grey walrus but indeed 'twas a purple moth. We had never actually seen a wombat of such verily jovial jousting ability. Besides, only yoghurt coated raisins with chocolate revolted against tyrant and savaged people.
By flicking status to confuse people, especially on Trillian, albeit unintentional behaviour that irritates people. Speaking of which, Jagged irritates people.

There would be Michael Winner's moobs on a BBQ, suspended from a small lacy bra and dripping yoghurt onto the sausages, if we didn't castrate a moose with the utmost malice and ferocity, not to mention with rubber gloves coursing down the nearest shop front with neither shame nor any reason, Michael Winner proceeded to commit suicide amidst yoghurty oceans by casting himself from his throne over the side into the raging abyss. He shrieked a primal, otherworldly Esure insurance quote, "...Calm down, dear, it's only a suicide attempt!" echoed throughout the morn.
Many housewives grieved, but most celebrated the timely death of the b*****d. Yet even today, with the mouse on his grave, it still reads, "Life's a commercial, so don't worry." his Esure, therefore "Due to vandalism, the elegy inscribed was complete bollocks. Please ignore it."
Meanwhile, the fat old cow that was Mrs. Purvis instantly died for her crimes against yoghurt consuming folk, which were numerous and distressing in their magnitude. This was not the only cause, however, it was the pâté, also, which made it unique.
Not only the Prussian government, but also the assembly at Spennymoore Juniors, without which, the Christian propaganda would miserably fail to inspire the heathens.
Mainly because of the utter lack of public lavatories let to public stadium venues is the postman no longer able to fulfil his desire to become Miss Sweden. This was not overly curious, as Miss Sweden was Mr Universe man; Universe man hated the universe.

But only one person actually loved by the GBG but their identity left relatively unknown, carrying a suitcase in the wind. Full of yoghurt, and other things, the suitcase weighed as much as a dog, not overly heavy, yet of substantial mass.
Suddenly, a rather long semantic gap appeared, in front of the old headmaster, who was subsequently and somewhat hedonistically sporting an obtrusive and yet convenient, though rather unstylish, not quite vintage, yet not new, brash yet subdued hefty briefcase, filled with absurd contradictions.
I decided to remove my skimpy bikini, which I then consumed ravenously, while trotting nakedly through the high street and towards the Swiss nudist beach. "Yoghurt, yoghurt!" shouted the street vendor, on July Fourth, as several Americans strolled lazily through patriotically waving flags like loons.
A large puddle in the road appeared and they fell into it. "Splash". I stifled laughter, and they cried.

Meanwhile on Mars, the Plus Pudding pulsated with green ominousness. James said, "Ah! What the ******** IS THAT?!"
"Your mom," said Bobby the squirrel.
The pudding leapt ferociously towards the bagless vacuum cleaner, and died, horribly. The Plus crawled away in disgrace, and was never ****** raped again for the week.

Meanwhile, in Bosnia, nothing was happening.

Meanwhile, in Tahiti, Owen was eating Sean's-mutilated-carcass-fried-in-beans-with-a-goodly-amount-of brown sauce.
I was still a wee lass when Owen was digesting Sean's trousers. And licking the very long and tragically disillusioned masses of cotton thread.
"Y HALO THAR!" shouted Gaulia, drunkenly and nakedly at an aroused Invictus. Eyes wandering, he grabbed a rather firm, rounded apple, whilst Gaulia attacked, with a spade. The entire guild beat Gaulia till she laughed. Yoghurt spurted out of her ears, then, suddenly the god, Sean, spontaneously combusted, because he had taken no brain stabilisers.
Meanwhile, Gaulia munched on Simon's personal family jewels, whilst toying with a bag of nuts while submerged in a green fluid that originated from Taiwan.
Minutes later, in south Tangier, a bomb exploded, and people died. On the upside, we still have stacks of naughty pictures of yoghurt strategically smeared across each other’s faces and bodies too.

And then with in an enticingly strange yet mysterious large wooden spoon, and somehow menacingly he came and with great gusto, ravished Whapcapn for using his powers of using four words. Shut it, you. Be nice, now. Sorry, Gaulia. One more word? That balances out. Anyway, "Three words, damnit!".

Meanwhile, in Swindon, graffiti was abundant surrounded by hordes of chavs, shagging, amusingly, but without condoms or pills, or even yoghurt. It wasn't pretty. Ecstatic, they reached Gaulia's house, eagerly awaiting treasures within. They broke into a rhythmical chant; "Take us now!" they begged, collapsing through her door. As Gaulia ran into a wall, said wall felt violated, yet oddly useful. The wall was cold and made of pants that once belonged to a mamaluke named Mary-Jane Cobbelwraith.
Suddenly, a rather large and ferocious poo jumped out of the shadows, momentarily stunning several passing pomegranates who were not poos nor had any intention of becoming poos. Solo's mule ran around naked in Invi's mind, because Invi is a lecherous cad, as agreed by no-one! Meanwhile, at the GBG, we did a poo. Magic word: THREE. "Lezzer lezzer lezzer". Such amazing intellect, no, not really. Sean was not straight. At all.
The yoghurt dripped tantalisingly off Aisa's firm and rather plum, pillow. While the yoghurt nipples didn't exist much, is the pity. On the upside, we'll soon die. Celebration and celibacy don't mix, Invictus. To his surprise, he was sober, which was surprising.
''Lemon curry?'' exclaimed the bewildered marshmallow Viking, who was righteously a famous juggling pianist architect with no teeth and very few Iron Maiden albums. His packet of Nebelstern-sized condoms was burned and was lost forever.
Meanwhile, in China the arctic ladybirds were eating Spain and Portugal with a side of Mexico. "RAWR", said Owen, who was annoyed over allegations relating to his ability to RAWR without dribbling. Simon couldn't RAWR what-so-ever without dribbling. Meanwhile Whapcapn couldn't RAWR without dribbling. Meanwhile Gaulia, without dribbling, couldn't RAWR. Meanwhile Invictus RAWR'd, dryly! While dribbling. However Angilwingz simply exploded. "RAWR", said Illy whilst secreting saliva. Meanwhile, in Chile, Francis said "RAWR", and also exploded.
First, however, lexicons inspired saxophone fibre to rearrange into an ironic apparatus designed for prostate yet resembling yoghurt (that doesn't make any sense) in a rather baroque fashion. Strangely around my hat, was not heard sounds of buffalos.

(THISMAKESNOSENSEPEOPLE!SOCANWEJUSTPLEASESTARTOVER?
P.S.SORRYFORSTEALINGGAULIA'STHING BUTIAMVERYCONFUSED)

Catriona tells lies! Said doctor Saw while sitting in a large CD labelled Metallica. They wallowed gracefully towards Michael D rockin' up yon wurzel-tree in the Dail.
Oi sees 'im Mo Iezu Ni~~~!
Stop quoting lyrics, Simon, you oddity.
Harriet the hamster met Mickey Mouse one summer's day inside a large yet strangely cosy cave. They decided to hurl multicoloured Michael D. ballot papers at penguins covered in marshmallows. ''BENZIN!!!!!!'' they hollered with great alacrity and proceeded to tar and feather every surrounding being including several cadets
who were coincidentally Tony Blair supporters.

Hetty the hen laid a creme-egg concealed within layers of inevitably mistreated yet somehow auspicious lingerie, although it was somehow tantalizingly tragic and mysterious.

All of a pot of yoghurt committed indictable offences against a highly respected gay.

Arnold was interrupted and consequently fell face lard mother inquest.
Years later, in creamy, natural, sexy tar, my mother swam almost frantically through a swarm of highly poisonous buttocks. Although somewhat bedraggled, she clawed manically at the large bosom of infinitesimal grains of wheatgerm which trembled enticingly and proceeded to agonize over the age-old problem of whether age-old was actually age-old, despite various legal quick-sand retaining issues.
Suddenly, incandescent floating tomatoes told us ridiculously smelly quantities of toxic lard on New Year’s Eve just might encapsulate our brains. Notwithstanding the implications of yoghurty maidens' virtue, or lack thereof. The latter was more exciting for all!
Yoghurt, O how noble! O yoghurt, divine! How wond'rous a gloop to the fat controller who was inevitably, nay, unavoidably, immersed in purple, yoghurt-coated loveliness.
A squonk leapt freely towards the large lady who grabbed hold of the terrified squonk's daughter.
NNNNGH walked into a lamppost "ouch" said NNNNGH who then ate NNNNG's archenemy NNNGH. Everyone was rather amused, really. Though NNNGH thought it somewhat less so. Having eaten NNNGH, overly zealous ham and others, NNNNGH popped. Though fortunately NNNNGH was not seriously injured. He did, however, ingest terribly large amounts of fat.
Betty, his step-uncle, suddenly imploded, with enormous ramifications on the west side, insofar as lightly oiled transvestites may be portly but certainly don't have much aplomb.

Meanwhile, people's sanity was never better! Well, according to extremely reliable resources. Namely: Patrick O'Brien, Barry Manilow, and W.G. Grace (deceased).
Heterogeneous fools seldom elope with extra cheese. For extra cheese was certainly worth its own elopement. Notwithstanding the multitude other dairy products also eloped, despite the protests of said multitude.
Ontic mobile phone holders established a rapport with a truly deep inner sense of the art of biscuit dunking, which ere long morphed into bizarrely fatuous clouds of strawberry flavoured yoghurt.
Thereafter, miscellaneous skulduggery was rampant in Illy's brain, despite Invi's attempts at emulsifying the former by soliciting aid for illicitly paid bundles of overly irrevocably Belgian artists (Dear sweet Jesus), artists of porn. Solo entered, unexplainedly, while Presbyterian shits floated, inexplicably, among the general populace. This caused incalculable filthiness.
The government didn't do an unfortunately large lady without reasonable justification due to widespread moral fibre (ish!). The sickening repercussions when sporks were forcefully thrust between Jack and Sally were evident for NNNNGH, whom by Jack and Sally was introduced to the delights of yoghurt-abuse, anally. This caused him internal bleeding but also intense joy. Albeit only until the Neurofen kicked his brains out.
It must be quite a surprise to unearth one's Spigot mortar emplacement when looking for spiritual enrichment and some disgustingly pleasant root vegetables and hopping madly along the grave of some old guy called Desmond. Whilst Desmond ran rampant amongst shocked and bewildered naturists, a circus closed down because of Jess. Jess' sister, however bad things got, ate elephants for England, regardless of Siam's complaints.
Johnagoad, that thieving b*****d with his lithe and offensively tall stinkhorn, was not particularly supple around the dorsal region. Subsequently, a new deadly sin developed, making Angil cry buckets full of sexy yoghurty love in an arousing but also bemusing and somehow enriching bi-monthly erotica magazine. Angil chopped parsnips while still crying the aforementioned love in an arousing but also bemusing and somehow enriching, yet hopelessly naïve red telephone box. This happened suddenly, yet contradictorily slowly, through mounds of yoghurt coated raisins and smudged CDs.
Interestingly for her, the journalist was naked, except for his tweed suit jacket. The rest had been shredded. Her eyes wandering, toward his briefcase which was, inexplicably, not a briefcase, pink and round with uninteresting green mellow pears, she made bizarre noises, much like an over inflated mongoose, or currency. Despite the ironically positioned foot of a footofa, she marched in concentric circles and promptly expired.
The surrounding desert melted in an alarmingly inappropriate fashion, causing Bernice to eat his own table lamp. However, this was entirely unnecessary, as elephants would universally agree, due to Bernice's extreme right-wing tendencies and unnaturally sexualised upper ventricle, which was yoghurt based.
As indeed you would believe aardvarks and squirrels would copulate without forewarning where yoghurt is too freely available. Indeed we British love to queue to watch this unbelievably irritating politician commit similar acts. It was argued by pseudo-intellectual turnips that empirical evidence was utter bullshit.
Invi has always revered his uncles in such a way as to positively infuriate the gawking journalist's wife called Gertrude. Fortunately, Gertrude fell dead, to the horror of right thinking salads and stuff.

When considering yoghurt as a garment, it is unwise to proceed without an implement of world domination.
Such carpeted walls as Mr. Featherstone-Hawe's were very pink, very.

The sin of Man's eternal pride can only be with enormous tweezers.
After falling asleep, elephants should never usually explode, though the more corpulent and belligerent of the clergy mafia often exploit these pachyderms, should they find reason to want sweet sweet yoghurt in a most inverted leaf.
When considering the implications of yoghurt there are reptiles created ex nihilo by profane and dark entities, like Sam the bob-sleigher or Paddy Ashdown.

Following their demise, the LibDems licked some sickly sweet badgers. There was an undeniable shortage of actual sense of these, however, and Henry, doubtful of Man's capacity to drink copious amounts of banana banana banana bananananananana, didn't mention Gwen. Gwen was enraged and turned herself into a large and nebulous cloud of painfully oblivious spotted d**k and rabid butterfly proboscides. "Proboscides are yummy", Invictus claimed, humming the National Anthem in retrograde epitomising (the wrong one) and shovelling down turnips, into a vile pit of semi-human creatures, squirming in a leisurely and perambulatory contrivance, quite thoroughly searching for love. *Sigh*
Love, however, eluded the vile clutches of Mary Whitehouse in a bikini rather too droopy. This may be irrelevant, but considering the current weather, one must always avert one's eyes from droopy bras, so they say. I however, say that one's clavicle should not droop. Things that droop inevitably discourage yoghurty infatuations, causing untold damage to the left hemisphere of World Yoghurt Manufacturing. Those corporate bastards hated droopy appendages and took drastic multi-coloured lemurs into a small, yet brown cow.

Cawing silently on the topic of pre-marital train-spotting fiascos, Henry was unable, when he had to spin around and land on Franics, to reproduce. Francis was relieved of his terrible sense of enlightenment and odd rash.
When thinking about bizarre and unrelated yoghurt induced hallucinations, the journalist united Edam cheese with a rather soft, slightly green soufflé.
The results surpassed Francis' wildest dreams ((and we have a hundred pages!)). These dreams eluded the butterfly catcher in his halls of melting marble. Marble crafted from congealed yoghurt, obviously. Any other sort would be silly.
Having established that the butterfly-catcher teamed up with three catastrophically cacophonic coconuts, it was only a matter of gratuitous gay-bashing and amusing abuse of fermented lactacious substances became the accepted form of coitus.
In understanding this, we may assume that NNNNG's life was wasted.

Butter can't replace yoghurt, however hard one's financial circumstances are. Rabbits, however, are allergic to both. This is partially, but not completely, due to the commercial quality of General Sherman's custom of wearing lingerie.
For no reason, a rabid homunculus refrained from yoghurt, the weirdo ascetic.
Mein po schmertzen.
It was ridiculous, the local shop only spoke German. How rude! German! In Wokingham! Bloody knickers everywhere... EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!
Indeed I felt mortified at his hideous taste for knickers with menstrual tendencies to emulsify such nonsensical things. This was especially odorous, having been eaten decades ago.

Chelmsford on Fridays is bloody awful, therefore I concede. In doing so condemning myself to marrying several dwarves waist downwards.

NNNNGH appeared once more, only to discover his stupid name was not, in conclusion. Yet it made no difference.
The Minister grunted a surprisingly revolting orgasmic noise when he saw Illy's amusingly shaped toy car, which resembled a tiny duck. This duck, p***s, was often used as a meal. He tasted of lemon curry and Bisto. Therefore, evidently they farted, loudly.
Like 'hende' Nicholas sharp mounds upon him reflected his reflection upon reflectors.
"Woof!" shouted Borg, the resident cheese-eating surrender poodle. He was excited by NNNNGH's wenches, Sir Menzies Campbell was the man wench and hailed from Glasgow, bloody chav. "Woof," for some reason, was his mating call. Ugh.

Og hseg gren mainly decompositional ox ate your ground-screw.
Meanwhile, up there under the great golden goose, it imploded gracefully and showered crystalline embers of fat over a large hat called Jimmy Hatson. "Hello Jimmy Hatson!" said Jimmy Hatson, his stalker/ imitator. This was simply due to Jimmy being rather wide. Hatson tactfully avoided another Jimmy Hatson. Because Hendry Flotsom (a.k.a. Jimmy Hatson) (or St. John Muffonlegs) (also Herman Kfwible) made cauliflower yoghurt.
This tasted truly divine, if you combined it with sufficient quantity of powdered arsenic. Nobody did though, unsurprisingly! ‘Did they know?’ wondered St. John Muffonlegs to his toilet. The toilet casually dismissed this lunacy as thoroughly irresponsible and rather dull.
Muffonlegs was unfazed, though rather fazed, which rather complicated his genital surgery with Henry Flotsom's bizarrely shaped barrel. Named Gerry Barrelwether, whose uncle served aboard HMS Pinafore as a seamstress and man of great gender confusion, and easy virtue.
This easy virtue had previously belonged to St. James Muffinlegs, but was purloin'd by Herman Kfwible under sage advice from Hendry Flotsam.
Who are these lady-boys? You may enquire? Well, Toby, the Essex tart, has been dangling his bizarrely proportioned and egregiously betentacled lemon from Edinburgh Castle's loftiest turret, jokingly named Jim.
This caused immeasurable, yet well-defined, lengths of curtain fabric to converse, flirtatiously, with Gordon Gibbler.
Gibbler rallied magnificently although he was rather hindered by Hubert Fragsworthy, who has no teeth and rather unusual personal habits, which were best unspoken.
All these people, in their tweeds, were one woman, its only purpose to demolish and amuse the native educated small rodents that lived there.
Following these 'rodents', was Bram Stoker, clad fairly casually in a kimono as he traversed the long, arduous trail, strewn with exciting underwear and positively charged lepers exhaltantly waving their genitalia in mesmerising but disintegrating circles.
Bezzlerberry Grizzleheim, the chairman for sillynameseuphamismsnicknamesthicknamesakasAK47sandM16s in the department of Welsh sheep, said Rogerinko Dimblehurst in various voices invoking images of an illegal nature that Dierdre Sumberworth found sinfully arousing.

Meanwhile, Xavier McFrankencircus was gurning at the PM's dog, which consequently imploded.
Markstable Dunnington found the still-smoking collar in his soup. Markstable Dunnington found this unpalatable, although his wife had no face. Subsequently Markstable Dunnington found Markstable Dunnington's whip.
Henry John Crapworth-Spartan found Markstable Dunnington an identity bracelet named 'Markstable Dunnington'.
Henry John Crapworth-Spartan found Markstable Dunnington an identity bracelet named 'Markstable Dunnington'.
Markstable Dunnington found this intensely annoying. Markstable Dunnington found repetition annoying. Cecil found repetition annoying. Yet Markstable Dunnington found Cecil annoying. Repetition found Markstable Dunnington's identity bracelet. Moving swiftly on; Identity discovered Death, Repetition found Cecil, and we all tired of silly repetition of Markstable Frogthorpe, though nobody found Markstable Dunnington palatable when repeated.

A whole aeon, producing silly names, found a very very very very spiffing way of making potato tea. Potato tea, not proper tea. It's always much better with actual tealeaves.

Bumsalad the Crow was bullied, obviously. This saddened him, so he ran, accidentally, into a small, biconcave sheep. This rare sheep was, unusually, biconcave. Biconcavity', began Francostinian, upset. Biconcave goats are common, surprisingly.
Concavity, concavity, there's no business like concavity in sex. Thank God. Triconvexity however, in men, causes fatal erection of orange tents.
Manhuffle Mcgrimm erected his tent due to his dysfunctional identity bracelet.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...OOOOOOOOOO...OOOOOOOOOOOOOO said Jim, somewhat elongatedly. The bear sighed. Then died. Unexplainedly. His mother, Beatrice, Queen of Sheba, who ruled Paraguay, ate banana yoghurt whilst quashing revolution, dance dance revolution, with lemon sole.
However, unrequited circumstances failed to compensate for Saul's enormous, scratch that, GIGANMONGOUS index finger which wriggled and wriggled somewhat reminiscent of Illy's large and lurid beige pizza.
Markstable Dunnington found his name irritating because of emancipated antelope continually indicating rabidly atheistic monarchs by means of yoghurt coated biscuits which Markstable Dunnington ate with vigour.
However, unrequited circumstances failed to compensate for Saul's enormous, scratch that, GIGANMONGOUS index finger which wriggled and wriggled somewhat reminiscent of Illy's large and lurid beige pizza.
Markstable Dunnington found his name irritating because of emancipated antelope continually indicating rabidly atheistic monarchs by means of yoghurt coated biscuits which Markstable Dunnington ate with vigour. Markstable Dunnington found them deeply arousing in a special...and invigorating way. Markstable Dunnington found Darkstable Munnington quite found Unkstable quite eratically phrased. However Stablemark Munstingdun didn't. But Sherlock said "No s**t, me;" went to market.

Basil was worried. Basil had found an actuary in the Pope's bedroom. This worried him. The Pope's bedroom, filled with Prada and many other decaying corpses, suddenly became quite animated and started tap-dancing on the iPod. The iPod broke and Markstable Dunnington burst into tears.

"Why must such lucid dogs recoil against the man?" questioned the officer after a pause.
... ... ... The next day, the parish of Murder's Bottom underwent rigorous examination by oily raccoons and
 

[Ithaya]

other such nonsense was found to be highly amusing though in the principality of Yoghurt. Or Wales. 'PRINCIPALITY', noted the stupid American girl, Delusional though she was, she desticated the small but adequate yoghurt pot.

'End of story?'
"Not bloody likely," ejaculated the papoose. Then he quickly ran up the vertical papoose slide and promptly slipped into the vat. "Owch." Said he, with enormous aplomb before ejaculating again, "I decline!" Consequently, a bystanding elephant was standing by.

Up to page page 144.  

[Ithaya]

"Oh what horror!" whispered James, the lugubrious and turpitudinous hobbit, high on intellectualism. Murderousness Carter Palmer Tomkinson stood on a potato of turpitudinous repute.
Slowly, but surely the giant clam battled with the might of the large bowel obstruction, a trial of desperation and not named so aptly


Up to page 125.  

[Ithaya]

...named so aptly, or at all, with a languid air. Sensibly, however, Invictus decided to eat more yoghurt. Foolhardy thought it might make squirrels dance the tarantella, however unlike anything ever seen before which is surprisingly lesbian. Simultaneous, haggis.
"Why God?" screamed the hermaphrodite, whilst a yoghurt covered lesbian was sick.
"Where to now?" after all that preceded asked the Milton Keynes operator, who smelled extremely ambiguous and faintly of yoghurt.
"Arise!", proclaimed slightly sexually ambiguous zombies as they fondled eighteen pygmy goats with obvious distaste. The goats were Illy's only offspring and as such had inherited her love of extreme bondage porn (which is fantastic). Therefore, Illy spends time and money without consideration of poor tropical birds

Up to page 128.

 

[Angilwingz]

eek Woah, Methinks I'm a bit behind.  

[Ithaya]

Therefore, Illy spends time and money without consideration of poor tropical birds, biding her time and waiting for the downfall of largely unknown floccinaucinihilipilificators who sodomize sheep.
"I feel sexual" quoted the strange boy, carrying a greedily snorting and oddly eloquent budgerigar. He was retarded. Upon seeing the seedy downtown motel become very small, he took pills, eloquent in nature, to stop convulsing on a daily bus he frequented. Then, quite suddenly, but with languid post-natal depression he drew a lengthy candlestick from his crevice. Serendipitously, he became aware that geographically displaced monuments surrounded him, and lacy jacks, prancing wildly without any phallic imagery, became obstentiously aware of his undeniably huge p***s. Penises being (sadly) frequent, are part of a giant pizza. Which tasted delicious. Futhermore, the antelope p***s with yoghurt proved to be most delicious.
Monkeys of Cercopithecidean type quite enjoy yoghurt in the bog at a night club while naked and dancing rather provocatively to samba beats.
Meanwhile, in Holland some yoghurt was a known precursor...

Up to page 131.

 

[Ithaya]

Angilwingz

eek Woah, Methinks I'm a bit behind.

I believe you may be right. =)

But I took over for you.
I don't do much on Gaia anymore. But I like to keep up with this...every few months...

 

[Invictus_88]

Wow.

Just saying.