still bored, so let's tell a story one sentence at a time

"Doesn't all this coffee just make you want to fuck all these beautiful fucking necks?" asked Lil Wayne.

A voice resembling a British man's poor impersonation of an Alabama accent issued forth from Annabelle's neck.

[insert sentence of 13,955 words from Jonathan Coe's 2001 novel "The Rotter's Club"]

What was even stranger was that the novel was written in an ancient language called English, which Annabelle had no way of knowing.

To make matters still more chaotic, red lights began flashing in every room, and the siren warning everyone there that Jeremy of Terra had gone into emergency shutdown mode began wailing in Yiddish (the native language of this galaxy), "Varenung! Jeremi hat kikt dem emer! Varenung! Jeremi hat kikt dem emer!"

"Di rinderns zenen halb," intoned John Dos Passos grimly.

"Don't forget to bring Jeremy back into the story," went the voice from inside Annabelle, which of course nobody understood.

Across the galaxy, Jeremy suddenly awoke from his dream, which was about a shower curtain ripping in half in a steamy locker room.

Nevertheless, in the other galaxy, Annabelle's now decapitated body strode decisively over to a panel hidden on the wall, opened it with a flourish, and threw a switch that deactivated the Jeremy-alarm, after which the voice emanating from within her announced, "We shall now observe a moment of silence for our fallen comrade, Jeremy of Terra."

The internal voice then yelled "Gardyloo!" and dumped waste onto the street below.

Meanwhile, back on earth, Jeremy poured himself a cup of coffee.

A stream of toxic intergalactic waste began melting his refrigerator, but he didn't notice.

"Jeremy, you will always be the foil to my primary reader-proxy/protagonist if you aren't the first to notice conflict that advances the plot," said that forgettable yet essential Class-D humanoid I call home to my consciousness.

"Anyone seen a replacement for my eye that was gouged out?" Jeremy asked no one in particular, although I was standing two feet away from him, trying to mop up the melted refrigerator, which was not putting me in a good mood.

I could barely decipher the manufacturer's warranty tattooed on the cranny of Jeremy's neck.

I stared at that neck cranny for at least 32 minutes, straight.

Emerging from the neck cranny, Jeremy winced in the fluorescent light of the chamber and forgot what he was going to say.

"Prank! Fist bump!" he yelled, this being his default utterance at such times of confusion.

The authors at any rate were beginning to sulk-suffer from dreary beery eyes bleating through foam belching bratwurst breath.

"The Aristocrats", shouted Jeremy.

'Is that what you call this… this?', asked the incredulous talent agent, who had been espying the scene all along.

Whence Wentz would wood Barre's bar, or ore his hiss.

Having remembered this handy phrase, which I must say is much pithier than "klaatu barada nikto", I pronounced it flawlessly aloud, thus preventing the next phase of Jeremy's auto-explosion sequence, which had it been implemented would have reduced me and the talent agent to grape jelly in a trice.

Craving dismembered Miss Dandy Glaze (hitch-eye lust spray, isthmus bitchier burrata nicht dough), Ike renounced "et flobulus lea laude," crust indenting the text craze of Mary Lee's grotto ex-Trojan pretense, miffed lad Ibsen gimp redemption could bathe 'n' soothed Lee anti-balance patient through great jolly innards rice.

Ike soon returned to his home and sat on his couch, which for some reason was completely burnt.

"I like Ike," said Ike, and he liked what he said, and he felt pretty good.

His couch was burnt because the sun was unfortunately playing with long sticks and started a fire.

The sticks were long and created long arcs of fire that stretched from the surface of the sun to fields and forests of the earth.

Fortunately, he had his Nissan Couch Card, and could buy another.

Ike started browsing the Ikea catalog online, looking for ideas for a new couch incorporating Scandinavian contemporary design, when it struck him forcefully that his name Ike shared the first three letters of Ikea.

"Ay caramba!" he exclaimed.

And even as the words escaped his lips, he knew at once his entire destiny had been revealed.

"Destiny," he hissed, "this is a shopping mall and you need to put your robe back on!"

Jeremy not having disposed of the burnt couch, Destiny retaliated to his mouth-progenitor’s exhortation by feverishly strewing layers of charred fabric about the food court of the shopping mall, getting fabric flakes all up in the chicken teriyaki.

Customers' complaints about the chicken teriyaki mounted rapidly and vociferously.

sadly, it was because Lil Wayne cooked it without washing his hands after wiping his bum

A few customers complimented the originality of adding charred fabric to the teryaki as an intriguing new flavor, but they were booed down by the majority and made to feel ridiculous.

“Last chance kitchen starts now,” said a feminine but anonymous voice emanating from the teriyaki, just as Lil Wayne was packing his knives.

Everybody in town was killed.

Lil Wayne, as an out-of-towner, was spared.

Icicles gently formed on a nearby corpse.

Suddenly, nothing happened.

Chapter II: Jeremy’s Trial by Fire

"I'd love to have a barbeque tonight", Jeremy said, even though we had no barbeque pit, no barbeque grill, no hibachi, no fire ring, no charcoal, no wood, no lighter fluid, no barbeque utensils, five wooden matches, and a head of lettuce, a carrot, and three radishes in the refrigerator.

Suddenly, Jeremy saw Eddie Murphy eating Riff Raff's face in the middle of the street, and he decided not to intervene.

Although the thought did flit through Jeremy's circuits that perhaps when Eddie Murphy was finished with Riff Raff, there might be some deep cuts he could consider that would marinate well.

suddenly, he looked back outside, and Eddie was gone, with pieces of Riff Raff strewn about the street, like taffy

Gee, maybe I should have asked Eddie for his autograph, Jeremy wondered.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps.

If that's Eddie Murphy, I'm definitely going to ask for his autograph, thought Jeremy.

As a result, those who had been continuously alive and still had somewhat functional brains could easily convince the recently dead of whatever cribbage rules favored them, enabling them to win the shirts right off the backs of their rather moldy opponents, but these, too, smelled really bad and it didn't improve the looks of the undead, either.

It was an election year.

The rules for the election seemed to be as unsettled and doubtful as the rules for cribbage had become.

Eddie hated acting against styrofoam balls, but here he was again, in a makeup seat on a trailer, awaiting the next layer of latex.

Then, in spite of the odor of fresh latex assaulting his nose, he smelled something that cut past that baseline aroma with an acrid force that staggered him.

Fragrance is like luck:we all want it when we go on a date. Such was the case when the robotic cello appeared.

On another cello, the scents of linseed, beeswax, elemi, rosemary oil, garlic, and dichromate would have been too much.

Fart.

Chris Cornell would sing of days like this.

This was the thought that fleeted through the mind of Miroslav Danilovich, lead singer in a Soundgarden tribute band called Zvuková Záhrada, based in Slovakia but temporarily on tour in Sofia, Bulgaria, as he trudged through the streets searching for a place where he could buy a bottle of slivovitz.

Miroslav may not have looked like much, but he had it where it counts - in his huge fingernails.