he lit their butts on fire with
a judiciously cast maximized, silent fireball spell
and exclaimed, rather boisterously, "you're all fired."
As the wimpering, pathetic, wannabe celebrities burned
the idiots amassed to witness the event
with their wands, staves, rods, censers, lanthorns,
and dry, cutting remarks, a passing mime
was left totally speechless, breechless, by leeches
that had escaped from Courtney Love's private
leechitorium, where they were fatted on small
farm animals, a few children, and lawyers.
But the leeches blood lust could not
be satisfied by a few paltry lawyers
whose ability to drain a community's life
is legendary. Nay! The leeches were insatiable!
They sucked worse than a New Kids
on the Rock of Gibraltar pop song.
These leeches sucked so bad, their heads
looked like little sponges, man!
A frustrated voice was heard crying out,
"get that thing off of me right
this second, before I pass out from
her stinky whiskey breath. Sweet memory, what
a gal. She was a fun person."
But alas, once the Harley was started
and the roses drooped from the ploom
the pot roast had long gone cold
, as well as being grody and tasteless,
with lumps of gelid fat floating in
what appeared to be a dead shoggoth,
along with potatos and carrots and celery.
And the mortified chef screamed as the
ovens caught fire and chaos ensued in
the little town of Ti where everyone
lived in Gingerbread houses of non-Euclidean geometry
it's gonna be a hot time in
that kitchen, especially when a mischievous necromancer
named Bart decided to animate the roast
bugbear in the other room. The zombie
proceeded to eat the chef in retaliation
for having the gaul to serve his
fellow roasted bugbears as a main course.
The chef did not die well. He
was torn into chunks. His last words
were, "baste the flank of bugbear with
olive oil and AAAAGH! MY SPLEEN!", after
the bugbear zombie was done drawing and
dancing the chicken dance with his best
season him with ll secret bugbear herbs
gathered under a full moon in a
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