Crustbuk the Clown slammed his tumbler of Scotch onto the table.
She was the woman who drank margaritas. Whether it was mid-morning or early afternoon or that dreary, gray hour sometime just before dinnertime in late September, she could be found with a frosty margarita in hand.
The Punk Pumpkin was the angriest pumpkin in the entire patch. He was constantly making efforts to cause mayhem and disruption, ruining the peaceful and otherwise sedate lives of the general run of pumpkins in the patch.
And it came to pass that the Coffee God came to a strange foreign land and this land was known to those who dwelt there as the Hazelnut Valley. And in this land the people did walk and sing beneath strange trees, called the tree of the hazelnut. And the nut of this tree they did pick and verily place the nectar from this nut in the mugs of their coffee. And they mixed the nut nectar with the coffee and would quaff this beverage on a regular basis in great quantities and were very satisfied and pleased with themselves thereby, and they did have a great amount of pleased talk about this ‘hazelnut coffee.’
The director sat at the head of the long table wearing a large smile and a dark green shirt that complemented his deep tan. “The casting job was amazing, Percy.” He spoke in a low tone to the screenwriter, seated at his right side and looking unrested in a ragged pullover shirt and three days of beard stubble. “You won’t believe it. Felice found the perfect actor for every part. She went like three extra miles to be mega-diverse, with a capital m-d.”
The Invisible Mummy dragged his bandaged feet across miles of bleak desert before finally sighting a place to assuage his raging hunger: a vulnerable, isolated Del Taco.