I was standing butt-naked in the laundromat of my apartment building
watching a pot-bellied man in overalls try to make pasta in the jacuzzi outside
when a flock of seagulls swarmed in like locusts and picked me up
and carried me to a downtown location in some indeterminate city.

Looking around,
I saw sidewalks that were conveyor-belt-people-mover type things
(such as they have in airports)
propelling emotionless, grunting pedestrians past me;
these grunting pedestrians were heaving buckets of gasoline
at lawyers on crutches who wore coke bottle eyeglasses
and were chastising the grunting pedestrians for not using banking services
with adequate identity theft protection.

A deranged street juggler whose head was rotating counter clockwise
walked by and whispered into my ear that the mafia doesn’t exist
and asked if I’d fancy him shining my shoes with his testicles;
I don’t approve of people shining shoes with testicles,
so I punched him in the face,
which raised the ire of a trio of break dancing British traffic cops nearby,
and accordingly I did a pirouette and punched the neighborhood Spiderman in his face
and stole and put on his Spiderman costume,
which enabled me to begin climbing up the side of a large phallic building
and escape the police that were now break dancing towards me, waving billy clubs,
and insulting me in a belligerent British slang I didn’t entirely comprehend.

Upon reaching the eighth story of the building,
I looked into the window and observed a single file line of stockbrokers in contortionist yoga positions
making horrible shrieking goat sounds in unison that reminded me a lot of Shakira’s music;
it was at this particular moment that a cross-eyed Michael Jackson impersonator walked into the office
and pulled down his pants, revealing a large boa constrictor penis,
which detached from his body and brutally attacked the contortionist stockbrokers
and somehow the Michael Jackson’s impersonator’s body then regenerated another boa constrictor penis,
which also sprang from his body, and then another,
and soon enough he was shooting boa constrictor penises all over the office like a machine gun,
and the snakes were swallowing the goat sounding yoga stockbrokers whole,
and even swallowing each other in a shocking display of workplace violence and boa constrictor penis cannibalism.

Going up a couple more stories, nature called,
and I smashed in the window with a sledge hammer I didn’t realize I had
and jumped into what looked like a normal office, but it wasn’t a normal office,
for there were hairless werewolves without ears standing on top of desks yodeling
and threatening each other with annoying leg movements
and when I tried to ask the earless werewolves where the bathroom was located,
they just looked at me funny,
and I realized they don’t have ears and probably couldn’t hear me,
and so I just proceeded to defecate on the floor such as I do on the subway
because it seemed like the earless annoying leg werewolves
wouldn’t really mind my public defecations as much as the people on the subway often do.

After that I crawled back out the window and continued my ascent
and passed by Paris Hilton
who was hanging by her tiny buttocks from an ass-shaped opening in the exterior of the building
and was laughing and shooting explosive diarrhea like a fire hose at several teenaged emo girls inside a pink-walled office
(these particular emo girls had especially atrocious hair styles)
and these particular especially atrocious hair style girls kept running at the diarrhea stream only to be pummeled
and knocked to the floor repeatedly in what appeared to be a horrific cycle.

And the whole building was now filling with Paris Hilton’s diarrhea,
and I worried it would soon collapse because no building can handle that much diarrhea,
and so I jumped from the building figuring it’d be better to die than be trapped inside
or outside a building filled with Paris Hilton’s excrement,
but instead of dying,
the seagulls returned and caught me and brought me to a beach somewhere in the Caribbean
where a 50 foot tall Asian woman in a loin cloth and spunky green bra was picking up surfers from the sea
and hurling them like javelins at tourist bungalows doting the shore.

The 50 FT woman stood over me, pointed in my direction,
and her vagina made a loud humming sound
and pulled me up inside it with an amazing gravitational pull
and shot me into an Internet café somewhere in her uterus
where I met Santa’s elves who told me this is where they vacation,
and I got online and decided to email my pen pal in Nigeria about the day’s events
and to enquire about all that money he’s been promising to transfer me,
but then the break dancing British cops burst in and started beating me with their billy clubs,
and I wondered how they managed to follow me into this particular vagina,
and I wished I had gotten a business card from one of those coke bottle eyeglasses lawyers
because I’ll probably require legal representation.

Despite my dire predicament,
I figured it’s better getting beaten up by British policeman in the uterus of a 50 FT tall Asian woman
than it is to be trapped in or on a building filled with Paris Hilton’s diarrhea,
so stuff really wasn’t all that bad in the greater scheme of things.