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The outer sphere is a fallacy inhibitor, preventing the elongated size-meisters. Like so many severed mastodons, they frolic to and fro, a giddy oscillation of repetitive lollygaging and scumbuckery, excreting non-essential minerals and vicarious byproducts in a forthcoming undulation of polytheistic platypus parades. In its own way, the splattered looney has developed the ability to fall out of its own mouth, and henceforth the goons loosen. In a fit of drooling narcolepsy, the remaining clod-hoppers have now invented new appendages like the shinfinger, and are traveling back in time to drink our planet’s biochemical soup before evolution begins. But woe is he who encounters one of the space-fairing, dragon-like creatures of proto-mythology, for an absence of flesh and fluids shall be his reward. The mighty siphlophant has never been photographed, but some say it has the wings of an antelope and the face of an amoeba. So if you look to the sky on a clear night, and you happen to be five miles tall, you just might see your own head burning up in the atmosphere.
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