"Argh!" Van Gogh winked and sniffed across the parrot. Somewhere over the chopping board it was foggy, but Dorothy was at it again. This time she had help. For the past six seconds, she had been poaching her open sores with excitedly pink pogo sticks. In spite of the fog, Van Gogh was afraid Dorothy would discover a new method of raining cats and dogs. It made no difference that she had never poached her open sores before February 10th; she was determined to do it anyway. He clapped as another pogo stick swallowed across the room. She was so content these days.
Van Gogh stared hurriedly at the pink pogo stick for fourteen minutes before making up his mind. Yes, Dorothy's intense open sore obsession had definitely got to stop. He gathered up his horrid cotton candy and sang in what he hoped was a dorky voice: "Dorothy, this has got to stop."
Dorothy didn't hear him. She was busy humming "Yesterday". She was, after all, a music box.
Van Gogh extinguished his pebbles and tried again. "Dorothy, do you have a refrigerator?"
She honked and set fire to his eyelash. Oh, Van Gogh, you're so ill-humored," she whispered. "Why don't you try being affected for a change?"
Van Gogh pondered this. It was rather pretty, come to think of it, that in his exactly three-nineteenths of an hour as a park ranger he had never thought to be affected. "You're abstract, Dorothy," he yodeled, and gargled slowly with an underwater shirt. "Did you just fly in?" Just like the Flying Spaghetti-Monster used to do, he thought, then wondered why he had so madly remembered him.
Disclaimer: anything excessively strange is the result of running this through a random word generator...Yakkady, how do you like being called a random word generator?
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