This was an article found on the floor in the residence of the late Mr. Issac Woodall of Kansas City, MO on January 17, 2005 . No clues as to what newspaper it was collected from but some document-hobbyists claim it never went to press. The article was written in German, thus this is my loose translation of said piece.

“Die Legende von Herrn Admiral Nacht die Seite Tänzer und der Platz Tätowieren”
January 10, 1866 by way of January 9, 1985 – A playful animal, the deer. Especially moon deer. Once in 1813, one of the deer, Sir Admiral Nightside Dancer, put on a wonderful display from the sweat of bipedal beavers. A temple, dedicated to Nightside, lit up so much that the Council of Fifteen decided it was going to alert Blue Planet (our earth) to their secret life. Not that earth would have the ability to travel to the moon at the time but 150 years was not enough time to scramble for cover.
The display included carousel-like deer prancing in slight light which is not unlike a combo of lasers and LEDs, only a bit dimmer due to CF guidelines. Lasers in almost a sepia tone would be correct.
Sir Admiral Nightside Dancer was very upset at the quenching of his extravaganza, so much that he almost put on a travel coat and went to earth to blend into the Hapsburgs but was stopped by CF just short of winged departure.
And now, when you look at the moon on January 15, you can see antlers and tears in what looks to be a fake constellation technique known as a Space Tattoo.

George Michael has a perch in his giant flat in London. It was only a rumour until now. When he pulls back his copy of “Can’t Reach October”, all the walls gain mysterious shadows that resemble the inside of a cage and a long plank of log slides out from a side wall about the height of where a second floor would be.
He stands on this perch and sounds you can’t hear anywhere else come alive. What a bird! What a beautiful bird he becomes! Charlotte Church once visited during his private time and fainted from wonderous clarity! He promptly smoked two cigars so that she would think it was only a dream.
Well, anyways, you will never hear this angelic audio for it is for no one but George.
One day, while wiping his forehead with a cloth due to a clean perspiration, George felt a new stubble on his cheek. He stroked it, thinking, in the same manner as a think-stroke, and noticed it wasn’t his own!
He had come by someone else’s stubble! Believe it or Not!

One time there was this kid who needed money for puppy. And so he got a job with his neighbor’s farmer. The farmer pretty much just needed shit shoveled and put in a pile. Boy wow did that pile have some stink!
Meanwhile, a goat was learning to speak. It was still a dumb goat but on a goat level, it was pretty smart. That goat was working on sentences, passing the kindergarten that the farmer had set up in the chicken coop away from the other goats because dumb rubs off so easily.
A goat learning to talk is sort of like learning to ride a bike on two wheels. Almost, almost . . . and then you just baaaah(goat sound).
Meanwhile, the boy had almost finished for the day and was going to the area where the donkey and the two mules were kept. And someone was about to get his chocolate into someone’s peanut butter.
The goat saw the boy and was angry, a passionate angry even about seeing a boy steal the donkey’s poop.
And like a magician who doesn’t practice, the goat trotted over to the boy, stopped, panted, and said,
“A donkey made that special.”

and Milk looked down and saw blood dripping on the ground. forgetting his first word, he became confused, not knowing that he too had wandered, all the way to Colorado where nosebleeds are frequent.
the hunter’s child, too, had a nosebleed. and soon, the whole forest looked as if they’d all eaten red velvet cake batter through their noses. it was some sight.
the mayor of boulder decided for the state of colorado that the day be named Dia de Sangre and then Ted said, “why not name it Nosebleed Day, instead?”
Ted became mayor the next year and won the whipped cream eating contest on Nosebleed Day the following year.
what was even better to a few was Nosebleed’s Eve. some say they saw a young child riding a deer with a white saddle, both eating candy apples which in boulder is now nosebleed red and not candy-apple red but still just as good.

there was this deer and the deer’s name was Milk. his mom named him such because he had a splash of white on his back. Milk never outgrew his name or his splash. one day a hunter’s child saw Milk eating a sunflower. now what’s peculiar here is that the sunflower grew in the woods, away from sunlight. the hunter’s child had wandered as his father was watching a fishing show on his portable. when Milk saw the hunter’s child he jumped sideways and kept one eye on the child for deer are good at one-eye stares.
the hunter’s child said, “Hello, what’s your name? I think my dad calls you Good Sausage.”
Milk strained like an animatronic puppet, trying to get the words out, but everytime he tried to speak he only grunted a bit at most.
when commercials interupted the bass catch on the tv, the hunter called for his child.
the hunter’s child heard such call and said, “I’ll be right back, deer.”
and Milk blurted the word, “Okay.”

I smelled the blood of a werewolf once and it was stinky. Like pent-up dinner from long ago let loose from its tupperware container. That’s what wereblood smells like. So, I bottled it up and got it to where I can spray it where ever there are too many farters.

Tha cappain’s visit were delitefool. He ate all I make and thain ask for more. The porter ask for some but I say No Sir. All food go to da cappain! Whence did I could eva. Make a timely dinna. Whence! Could I make a cum uppance on putting victuals on a fayr! Fourteen yeas a rowin’ inside a pot I tale ya. I unce pummeled a live ‘pus on the pup deck wit an oar and sliced ‘er tensticals off with a scabard and made a seaghetti outta her. Most delicious! Aye, but da cappain is a stubbon mouth and only want what made outta flour and ale. I make a nigh bread and cake but I winked inside a clam whats made a ocean grand. Aye, aye Cappain!

Damn Pullman Strike! I guess that’s what they’re calling it. I just wanted a damn Twizzler and the store’s on fire. So, I’ll just sit on the stoop and write and complain. There goes Harry, throwin’ molotov cocktails at the coppers.
“Hey, Harry, where’s Billy?”
“I don’t know, man, but-hold on I gotta throw this before it-”
*
I don’t know why I gotta bother people when they do stuff. That how shit gets all messed up. I guess I can go into the store, it being on fire and all.
“Hey Charlie, you got any Twizzlers?”
“Get off your ass and go burn something. Aren’t you sick of being shit on?”
I’m just gonna keep writing. I’m gonna move, Diary, because its hot and i gotta go lay down.

A bullet was stopped by a man with a plate of gravy. white gravy. He was on his way to table where chicken fried steak was being served. The gravy was from home. He made his own gravy. With flour, salt, water, pepper, and some grease. He had covered the plate with cellophane to keep dippers out and freshness in. A man named Poison Ivy Sally pulled out a civil war instrument called a musket and shot the man, delivering a bullet through the cellophane and into the gravy, splattering the onlooking Shriners. Templar Steven pulled out a gun and rattled off “Android” to the man with the gravy, thinking he had the white blood. As he shot his 22 pistol he had a second thought and then noticed red blood flowing out of the man’s arm, like a tattoo pop-up.
“Sorry about the bullet, Justin. It was the gravy that threw me. I’ll wash your car for a month. Starting next year.”

I got this witch to come over. She had some kind of lizard’s breath sealed in a jar. I called bullshit on her because you can’t seal breath.
So, she farted and said, “You smell that?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on.”
So, she grabbed a mason jar out of my cabinet and went to the bathroom where I heard her fart again but this time it sounded muffled. She came out and showed me a sealed jar.
“Here.”
“What.”
“Open it and smell.”
“Okay.” And I did. And it smelled like a fart.
“It smells like my fart, right? Cause I just farted in front of you earlier and it smells the same, right?”
“Yes it does but it doesn’t answer how you got a lizard to breathe in a jar.”
And then, she levitated and slid on her toe tips to my bedroom and came back out and said,
“You want to see what lizard’s breath can do?”
“Okay, but Jesse will be home, soon. You shouldn’t try to come on to me. You’re kind of seeing him aren’t you?”
She opened the jar and out came a light the color of rainbows and I was blinded by magicked rave lights and when I could see again, the room was filled with water and a giant goldfish (larger than a koi, smaller than a whale) and I had gills.
And then Jesse came home and the water fell out the door. And when he saw that I had gills he thought that I had had sex with his girlfriend. How did he know?  What an amazing day!

Once I went to this haunted house and it was nothing but blood. Blood, blood, blood. Blood this, blood that. All just blood. No characters like ghosts or zombies or vampires or anything of that sort. Just blood. That’s it.
Huh.

Two field monitors waited for someone to pass by. There were many cicadas about making their wondrous noises blending in and out of the bursts of wind. One fellow who popped out of the wood about 300 yards in the distance made his way to where the monitors stood. As he got closer they noticed he had jerking limp, almost as if a puppeteer had something to do with the way he walked.
“Hello, stranger, have you got a pass?”
“No, I don’t think I want to come this-a-way. I think I should be going that-a-way.”
And his leg jerked out.
“Oh dear,” said a monitor.
“Look at my foot!”
And as sure as there is a good time to be had somewhere else, this fellow had a fishing lure stuck to his shoe and was being reeled in.
“I was a little sheepish at first. But anyhoo.”
And he limped on past the monitors, turned around and goes,
“Happy Stoopid Day! You assholes!” and he pulled the lure out of his shoe and limped away a little more, falling over himself and landing limp-style on top of a sheep and stayed there for a very long time.

I tried to get dead reckoning put on my slide rule but couldn’t upload it because its a slide rule. So now I can only multiply and divide and all other calculations are done on my fingers. My left hand is (x) and my right is (y) and when I calculate the cosine of 5 against the lamp, the shadow of my hands look like a horse eating time.

Got some peanuts at the drug store.
Got some liquid glue.
Poured the glue into the peanut jar.
Shook it up.
Waved the open jar Pollock-style so the peanuts hit the outside window of the drug store.
Backed away and saw the face of Ben Franklin. Just like a $100 bill.
I shit you not.
9:21
Stared at glass.
9:22
Looked around to see if anyone noticed the glass.
9:28
Began to pull glue-trapped squirrels off the window with loving hands and the jar filled with warm water.
9:30
Heard a squirrel say, “Thank you”. I shit you not.
11:00
Finished Halo.
11:01
Wept.

There was this kid who loved syrup. He bemoaned the days when mom was out of it. He dipped everything in it: bacon, biscuits, corn dogs, hot dogs, grilled cheese, french fries, cake and pork chops. And his list went on.
One day his uncle shot a squirrel, boiled it and put it on the kids plate. His uncle knew of his love for syrup and for the common use of syrup on wild game.
The kid tasted it.
“Hey, this tastes like chicken.”
“That’ s because it is chicken.”
“Really?”
“No. But yes it is chicken.”
“Schinken?”
“Yes.”
“That’s pork.”
“Not pork.”
“Is it squirrel?”
“No. It’s shicken.”
“Chicken?”
“No. Yes. It’s tastes like chicken right?”
“What am I eating?”
“You tell me.”
“It’s meat.”
“Yes it is.”
“Did you hunt it?”
“I may have.”
“Then it’s squirrel.”
“Maybe I shot a pig in the back.”
“Did you?”
“No, but I could have.”
“You hunt squirrel.”
“I do have a 22 caliber rifle.”
“Is it squirrel?”
“You’re a clickin’!”
And this line of questioning finally landed on a mobius strip and kept on going with ricochets of words never sticking to the conversation. And the syrup never ran out.

Mr. Freebird himself, Casey Dobbins, was waiting to buy tickets to the mechanical toy theater production of “Wind Up the Wind Because Wednesday’s Gone, Too”. When four o’clock became four o’clock he picked up his rotary and began dialing ten numbers very quickly.
Busy.
Again.
Busy.
Again.
Busy.
Again.
“Hello?”
Oh no. This isn’t Ticketline. “Hello, is this Ticketline?”
“No, this is Judy.”
“Oh . . . Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Who are-”
Again.
Busy.
Again.
Busy.
Again.
“We’re sorry. Captain May’s Travelling Mechanical Toy Theater Proudly Presents ‘Skynrd: Wind Up the Wind Because Wednesday’s Gone, Too’ is sold out. We apologize for any-”
Again.
Busy.
Again.
Same message.
Oh dear. Oh dear. What now? Oh dear.
Casey ate a whole bag of Twizzlers as he circled the block of his house twenty times. He thought about how they would present The Ballad of Curtis Blow. And he began to weep. Weep hard. Not this hard since having to miss Star Wars because he had been waiting in a line earlier for his dental appointment.
But this was different. This was a tiny train with different scenes on each car. Each scene a story or song.
“Hey Joey, you got any candy?”
“No, sorry, Casey.”
Oh dear.
“I clap for you and your children, too, in this we’re all the same.
What a wonderful world in this old girl
how free the birds have gone.
So, Go on, Go on, Be a free free me
Tuesday’s gone but Wednesday’s here
And I haven’t got the time to steer you (wrong)
Go on, Go on, Be a free free me
Thursday’s Friday and Saturday’s Monday
How free a bird am I
How free a bird am I”

Here comes dawn and I’m not ready. I just made some real blood oranges. Not the Italian kind. More like the kind of oranges you find in prison, the kind given to inmates from people on the outside. Liquored oranges. Those oranges, injected with a syringe filled with vodka, are the brothers of my oranges, the ones I injected with blood and allowed to pickle in the blood barrel. I made of batch for me and my friends and now dawn is here and I have to get underground before the sun does me no good. If you’re human and you find this note, please leave the barrel alone because we want to watch The Poseiden Adventure tomorrow night instead if feeding on the likes of you. In fact, if you could give our Renfield guy a winebox full of blood that would be great.
In time, we will be cool to you. Thanks for being cool.
love,
Tony Vampire

One time I feeled up this tree to see if it had diamonds in the bark. Someone had tipped me off and told me a rich man who had plenty of disposable income decided to make buckshot out of diamonds. Real diamonds. Not synthetic and not glassy fakes. He wanted to kill a deer with it so that he could serve venison with prizes. Oh, how eccentric he would be.
“Look at me I’m so crazy and wealthy! I’m a tart and I don’t care! Everyone listens to what I say so that I’ll throw them a bone filled with cash!”
So, he took a jar of diamonds and poured them into the casing and topped it off. He made five of these. He fancied himself a Van Helsing but stopped short of wearing a fedora.
I’m brilliant. I should film this. No. I’ll get Johnson to film it.
“Johnson!”
Where is he?
“Johnson!”
“Yes sir.”
“Go get the camera. Posthaste! We’ve got an artfilm to make.”
“Getting it.”
Johnson began filming.
“No. No. NO. more cameras! Here’s the AMEX. Go to Best Buy and get three more! No, wait go to B & H and see if you can get good ones with minute lenses.”
“You’re the boss.”
“You’re damn right I am. I’m the damn captain.”
So, filming ensued and the captain made his bullets, killed some deer, made some sausage, fried up some venison and made a dvd out of the whole thing.
When the friends came over for dinner, the captain waited for them to find their easter eggs in the meat but never did. He sweated and pined until finally someone said,
“Captain?”
“Yes!”
“Where’s the coke?”
And with that he walked over to the entertainment system showed them the dvd, talking through the movie, telling them what idiots they are and made all of them use the bathroom in a prospector’s pan.
So, when I say I’m feeling up this tree, I can tell you that I know two things: The captain is a poor shot and after sifting through poop I deserve these diamonds or my name isn’t Def Code Johnson.

Once upon a time my dog was sick for his mouth was full of bacteria and needed a professional teeth cleaning. The fee was $300 which I didn’t have so I studied some mystics and learned how to possess my dog since teaching him to gargle was near impossible.
I possessed him and it was neat. I tugged on a sock that I had previously tied to a chair leg while full-on human. It felt good to tug.
Then, I proceeded to the dog dish where I had laid out some mouthwash to which I gargled and spit. I then went over to a chair where I had duct taped an electric toothbrush perpendicular and proceeded to concentrate on each tooth. I gargled again and then went to lie down in the sun to see what the big whoop was about. It was real nice.
Then, I pooped in a corner to see why that was cool and it was and I was so proud of myself that I ate some “silver bells”, otherwise known as Hershey Kisses. I forgot about where I was being a dog and all and started throwing up.
I quickly unpossessed my dog and returned to my human body. I picked up Harry, my dog, and took him to the vet where he got his stomach pumped for about $300.

Due to his piddling, the man known for highjacking enormous amounts of time and flushing them down the commode got sick on a pizza box that grew a mold so dense that it imploded and circumvented the room with gas like a ghost fart’s whirlwind. Luckily, his maturity level automatically kicked into second gear and he threw the box away but not before inhaling enough spores to render him unconscious.
During this time he had a dream that superpowers were bestowed upon him. He was able to lift heavy bikes, push open locked doors, and see through bedsheets translucently. When he awoke, a nurse gave him antibiotics and he turned on the tv.