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

(oops. also include the 3rd, and 4th, too)

His warranty, however, did not cover "acts of Eddie Murphy while dehumanized" and therefore its current illegibility was of little import.

Randall Flagg arrived on the scene, realizing it was time once again for his reign.

"Eddie! My main man! Can I have your autograph?", Randall exclaimed with all the fervor of a true fan.

"Flagg?" gasped Eddie, his voice betraying the horrible suspicion that his unsportsmanlike conduct during the Fifth Intergalactic War might finally come to light with the sudden reappearance of this, his arch-nemesis and former commanding Güberhauptführe.

Then Eddie's eyes hungrily alit on the pen Flagg was holding out in his direction in all innocence, believing that this Eddie was still the same old Eddie the cut-up and clown he knew from long ago, unchanged by fame, fortune, untold amounts of drugs and alcohol, and Rick James' curse.

A few moments passed, and as the fierce and raging tears began to clear from Eddie's keen and incisive eye, he espied an inscription upon the Flagg-pen, the pen which we knew had traveled lightyears from a distant, squalid dimension: "Baktar bicht nÿeer biní Qglooob."

He hummed a tune by Buzzcocks, "I don't mind" he thought it was, although he couldn't be sure.

For the first time since brutally eliminating Jeremy, Eddie Murphy felt almost human, but it quickly passed.

As did a kidney stone he didn't even know he had.

“Shlwooopgh!”

He exclaimed, as the kidney stone came out of his ear.

It was a process of birth, of spiritual renewal.

A bit of Eddie's brain came with it, but he found the overall effect was very refreshing.

There were parades.

The processions bubbled up from portals in the ground and stretched out in psychedelic patterns toward the horizon.

all of a sudden, an unexpected guest arrived - Kadeem Hardison, Eddie's co-star in Vampire in Brooklyn

He started to play a harpsichord duet with James Redd, whose band, the Blecchs, had been leading the 134th parade brigade.

Outside in the cold distance a wildcat did growl, for the wind was surprisingly calm, allowing the growl to be audible from so far away.

Pavlov's dog-like, he cracked himself open a cold Labatt with the boys from Canada.

The growl was met by the strains of “Garryowen” as the pipes of the 134th began to skirl.

The psychedelic processions vanished into the ground from whence they had magically emerged at the first notes of the bagpipes (which incidentally were the highland pipes, not the more petite uilleann pipes, nor the gaida, traditional bagpipes of Balkan shepards) as if they were pursued by seven devils holding knives and forks and looking famished.

Suddenly, Eddie felt fatigued of all the merriment, and also possibly of the mild aural brain-loss he had experienced only moments earlier.

The wildcat finished his Labatt and politely wished his Canadian friends a good evening; continued merriment was not his purpose, either.

Disgusted by the lack of either merriment or drugs, Kadeem Hardison soon left in a huff, while Randall Flagg, who had been waiting, doglike, through it all for Eddie's autograph now left, too, ecstatically clutched a wrinkled Labatt's label, upon the back of which was inscribed, "To my best arch-nemesis ever, respectfully..." followed by a scribble that might have been either 'Eddie Murphy' or else 'Richard Pryor'.

He tucked the label into the pages of a book he'd been reading, the second volume of a biography of Adolphus Busch.

"Looks like it's down to just you and me," Eddie said to James Redd, "What do you say to a couple of hands of cribbage before we turn in?"

The wind blew itself to pieces.

everyone in town that died weirdly came back to life as if they had never been dead, but they smelled REALLY bad.

Nobody remembered the rules of cribbage.

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.