Floaters Dreams

A long time ago in a tree house near Shepherds Bush there lived a man. A crazy man. A crazy man with a vision. The vision was that of three lesbians and a salad sandwich with toppings of cheese sprinkles and many layers of Jamie dodger cake, but that is a different vision.
The vision concerned is concerning the mad mans dream of creating a super hero from poop. A POOPER HERO!! Chris P Skink, the name of the nutter, had a special Spanish jumping turd imported to his monastical layer in the biggest bonsai tree near Shepherds Bush from Beaver Creek. He performed a multitude of miraculously malicious and molesting mexperiments upon the poor powerless pile of poop. Skinkor, as his companions in the inner circle of the outcast inbred outlaw scientist society neglected to refer to him as, injected the Hispanic excrement with jam, a viciously nasty breed of jam from the north of the south island of the northenest south peninsulas of northern Alaska more commonly know as the Backstreet Boys Jam, and bombarded the feces with Mexican waves in his specially designed hairdryer-dining table. The smell was horrible, so were the windows, it could smelt as far away as the other side of the room, so could the windows, and was strong enough to break glass, not the windows, and did, nooooooooooo the windows, smash a glass figurine of the windows, phew the windows are saved, then the real windows were broken too, damnit.
From the wreckage of the BONSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAI tree came staggering Capitan Poop.
“Where am I? Who am I? What am I? NOOOOOOOOO!!! THE WINDOWS!!! OLE!!” carried the newly born poop creation as he lifted a rather reflective shard of the once proud standing window and stared at his shitty reflection. “What in dogs name is this trick? I appear to be a poop. OLE. And a Spanish one at that. This cape, where did it come from? I seem to possess pooper powers too. I am a pooper hero. I must do good. But first lets have some marmite and trifle butties. OLE”
After the pondering poop waffled down his snack he tried to think of a name for himself. “From this day forth I shall be known as ‘Oooo a tater’ - man/poop” but later changed it to Capitan Poop when he found out that  ‘Oooo a tater - man/poop’ was a trademark of the Muller Rice corporation.
“Now I have a name, all I need now is a side kick. OLE” he said looking around for any sign of a second shit-man existing. There was none. But there was a rather large pigeon sitting on a fence in Jamaica, smoking a blunt with Jimi Hendrix and the three musketeers. So he picked up the largest piece of Skinkor he could find, which happened to be his hairy arse, and rubbed his freshly radiated body all over it covering it in a lathery layer of poop. He then hit it with gerbil called Mike. POOF. Out popped Ass- Dog. “Parppp.” Squawked the ugly mutt waging his buttock hairs.
“Now we are together, lets find injustice and justify it, after a nice game of croquet and some more pistachio nut salamander cakes”
So they did.
Stuarts Page of Shite Shityness
                                 Capitan Poop II




Once upon a dime Capitan Poop was walking through Tesco, with Ass-Dog jiggling at his side, trying to find the submarinated chicken section, but all he could see was the endless isles of Tesco’s own brand David Dickenson pictorial animated toilet roll, when he wandered straight into the killer flying super evil rectum cows with beef burger legs annual festival of lobotomy meeting.
“Moooo” said the leader, Norman.
“Ooooh, terribly sorry,” replied Capitan Poop, “but I am in dire straits need of finding a frozen quantum singularity with mustard sandwich, might you good sirs be able to assist in my search?”
“Erm……..No! But, haha, I will eat u like a worm.” Answered the leader.
“Ahhh, cant u eat me like toast?” requested the feces.
“No.”
“Please?”
“Weirdo, we super evil rectum cows always eat people like worms, doing it any other way would jus be out of the ordinary.”
“Oh, ok then.” Said Capitan Poop “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
“Mwahahahaha” chortled the bovine monstrosity “Heeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaarrrrrrr wooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyy, hear me mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”
“Nooooo, the mesmerizingness of the nostrils, oh how they flare when I say A-WIMBO-WEH-A-WIMBO-WEH-A-WIMBO-WEH-A-WIMBO-WEH-OHHH IN THE JUNGLE THE MIGHTY JUNGLE THE LION SLEEEPS TONIGHT” Capitan poop said.
“GRRRRRRR NOOOO! The A-WIMBO-WEH song, how it enrages us to the point of exploding!” and they did, with a rather loud and annoyingly squelchy BANG.
“WOOOHOOOO! Now I am free to be eaten like toast, if ever the opportunity should arise.” Danced the merry little turd.
But what Capitan Poop did not perceive, was that there was a slightly dilapidated, boss-eyed killer flying super evil rectum cow with beef burger legs standing on his foot. This killer flying super evil rectum cow with beef burger legs, known to his cohorts as Pumba, was the rarest of the hoard who ate people like toast, the outcast if you will. The black sheep of the killer flying super evil rectum cows with beef burger legs at the annual festival of lobotomy meeting. He wore a daisy chain around his neck and walked in an aggressively homosexual manner.
“That’s my song!” said Pumba, who is happened to be a warthog in disguise and on vacation from the trials of his movie start lifestyle while researching for his latest film release ‘The killer flying super evil rectum cows with beef burger legs and the annual festival of lobotomy meeting.’ When all of a sudden there was a bright flash and a sound like that when you strangled a dead donkeys great grandmother with a haddock and a pair of long johns.
“I am the Spoon Of Death!” said the Spoon Of Death, “All bow down and hail the Spoon Of Death, from hereon in known as me.”
“So I am a dead flower film star?” replied Capitan Poop.
“Yes.” Said the Spoon Of Death and Pumba in unison, as the danced around the maypole singing “A Tra-la-la-la-laa” and holding hands with the pixie people from the unknown island of Dudley.
“PAAAARP” Squealled Ass-Dog, as the all skipped and frolicked in the fading sunset of the switched off lights in isle 17 (frozen fish) of Tesco.
THE END