It was exactly what the people wanted.
Eunuchs emerged from a flight simulator after being trapped for twelve days following a honeymoon mishap in an arcade at a Norfolk seaside resort. By 6:30 the next morning trousers were being ironed and sand and witch sandwiches were being donated to the most recent person to congratulate God on clinching a geological fatwa.
Rain followed. Nobody moved for several moments.
Pushing aside swimwear, children who were eager to recreate the days of public executions gathered stones and saddled up for a polecat race. Some of them died. Some of them died twice. Glue was used to subdue the enraged.
Smashing the next four sunsets and sparking off a deluge of class B swear words among cane-flexing matrons who swallowed carpets whole, 'They' were seen glancing desirably at a snow-mesh.
The auction was ready to begin. Lot 1: The hair worn by Robin Williams was expected to fetch at least half the price of a shrew licence but alas, the air-conditioned homing nymphs had been hospitalized after a hefty fall from page 14 of the Old Testament. This created a build-up of reality feedback that submerged the front two rows. Lot 2: A complete set of Hungarian death row washing basins (complete with accompanying radical chant.)
Choc-chip finger creams and glasses of orange squash promted a series of bizzare modified apologies until pudding was served. Beans being the main course. Lot 3: Lake Satisfaction.
The pantomime whores provided the encore followed by relays of improvised defecation.

Is this a new one by Kate Bush?

Therapy said:

Cloudbuster said:

If you don't mind me asking, what type of pudding was being served?

Fish.

How did they leave the place after the show was over?

minneapolisgenius said:

Cloudbuster said:

Fish? Why, that's crazy!

It was business as usual.
No sleep that night had caused an insectal rattling drone, probably achieved by rubbing skin and air between a place where hair meets bare bone. "Candlelit Sabotage" was how the papers described it.
An uncompromising exchange of suspicious packages and obvious pancake toppings took place in full view of people who were stubborn enough to care about the distance between lampposts. None of them could explain the dissapearance of a shocking amount of soap. 'They' settled for bread.
With his bad-boy image well and truly shrugged off, God sneaked away wearing a bewildered expression tucked under his arm.
Shall we dance?
The nurse said "Yes" and alleges the man went on;
"Oh good. Another thin one. We'll get this over with quickly, won't we?" He even thought it was a fathers' duty to break his daughters in.
After a night of heavy drinking and the worst possible insult for a Sikh, Amanda went upstairs and got into her pyjamas. "I like doing it" she said.
A coach trip to Wolverhampton ended in a court appearance. There are only about twenty of these in existence and most are collectors items. A spokesman said "I like doing it."
Forty baby mice were forced at knifepoint to participate in the world's Blackbirds Nest Burning Championship. Play was halted for nearly half an hour after one minor ailment became two more serious conditions. Pre-anorak men stopped sniffing lifebelts and Partially Obscured Face Man gulped congealed lumps of explosive chemicals bracing himself for another wednesday night.

Therapy said:

By fish.

Cloudbuster said:

If you don't mind me asking, what were the pancake toppings?

Obvious.

Cloudbuster said:

Fish? Why, that's obvious.

Fish.

The car windows were still smeared with nose grease as the balloon containing Area 52 secrets was held aloft in an outdated attempt to signify unity between the dampened epididymis of a bouyant boy ant and fifty filthy porn star cleavages. Ultimately 'They' grew tired of the blue carpet treatment and took the flak like a florist fire before lunging sideways into a contract designed more to intimidate than congratulate.
Absurd demands were met without protest or draught excluders causing the energy from negative attitudes to be channelled through irrelevant authorities. 'They' triumphed nonetheless.
Danger had to be kept at a safe distance by high profile celebrity scapegoats breaking through the pain barrier to exhume mermaids from a maze of tripods. 'They' gyrated unconvincingly when wasps vacated a suitcase handle selected at a festival of diplomatic bureaucracy. The wasps were heard clambering onto a burred rim overlooking BBC2's unauthorised maturbation documentary hindering a sort of navigational manslaughter aid, a remnant of Ethiopias decadent period.
Pavement rage was imminent.
The auction was once again ready to begin. Lot 4: The top four inches of a fast flowing canal. Thousands of Elvis Presley fans were now standard issue in the corridors of the powerless. From their vantage point up a nettle stem supplying slender support to their revenge society, 'They' plotted and visualised nothing more than a shortlist of offensive seventies shirt collars. The mermaids sank without trays. Lot 5: Elvis Presley. The customs men were waiting.
"We believe you are in possession of subversive speculation," they groaned.
Lot 6: Stevie Wonder's favourite colour.
Meanwhile in a perpendicular universe Elvis Presley awoke to a Texan drawl that reminded him of an old coco-pops advert. Breakfast was served on a crinkle-cut toilet seat. Pensioners were seriously pissed off and then pissed on. With parking spaces at a premium, pleurisy options were incalculable. Lot 7: Big things in tight spots.
The car windows were still smeared with nose grease.

Together 'They' tip-toed on stilts through the Dungeons Of Hope where bone marrow auditions were ten a penny. The intruding silkworm discovered a toilet-roll stain inside the shadow of a maggot skull which reflected screenings of Classic Pigeon Road Deaths. Applause was neither safe nor encouraging as the Small Cloth Square and a neighbourly arsonist collected carved paper crabs and discarded Val Doonican concert tickets with invalid-carrier tyre prints running across them hexagonally. There was nothing to do except have their backs licked by every species of amphibian.
A safety curtain of social stigma descended as two men with drainage channel shoulders loomed near the bingo hall drinking cans of indian neck sweat and stated that edge of seat tennis match climaxes were bad for one's health! Help came in the form of road sweeping astronauts who were brushing themselves down grates and a council finger nail cutter who blew bubbles through a pea-shooter at a funny shape.
Footprints steamed on the steps of the building of facial disfigurement and blood was scraped from the walls of public toilets giving christians the right to dive into phlegm for Jesus. Jesus wept but not as much as the carved paper crabs who involuntarily sat further down the page.
Pulling up in her rhombic shaped car and wearing her trapezium shaped glasses, the abatoir matron gargled smegma until she was asked to wear two bowler hats rimmed with vaseline for the good of all. It seemed only Margaret Thatcher's exploding head could save them until soiled nappies fell from windowsills into the arms of a semi-human water budgie thus creating an avalanche of crispy finger skin that overwhelmed the masses until women were allowed to drive tractors.
Braille smoke signals and Santa's christmas present unwrapper (whose bullet riddled body was thrown from a speeding steamroller) passed a garbled telephone message to three dead Germans. They celebrated by having their sister's hair cut. Bumblebees sipped urine from the potties of Five Seasons Mental Asylum. Paraplegics fled up the stairs.

In the beginning there was darkness. Then someone paid the reconnection charge.
"Game of cards?" asked Amanda. Two hands later precision timed explosions ripped through the Earth-Moon tunnel causing the power of balance to swing in favour of chlorophyll based life forms. It was like 2012 all over again. Luggage space was huge with a nice flat floor forcing anthropoids to unpack eastwards away from an oncoming gust of solar wind whose diminishing presence was last seen being tied into sacks.
Guilt edged opportunities aroused the thudding of car alarms and Michael Portillo was seen straining at the leash. A pyramid moat and an inaccessible picturesque war zone of the late titanium age applied more than reasonable force to the owner of an outrageous entrance fee. Shrinking his body into a sphere less than one cubic inch in diameter at the corners, the owner escaped by travelling by custard powder through the remainder of the Earth-Moon tunnel. The rest was swept into a dustpan by the chlorophyll based life forms who were reduced to squaffling, a form of disagreement combining squabbling and quaffing.
Holding a caged sandstorm, capital I's capitalised on an expanding market for firing squad prolongation terminology with varying degrees of success. Caught with their hands in a crate of eco-fascists, people with middle class aspirations felt inclined to drive blind-folded over London's notorious lynching bridge causing a head-on sex quiz.
A 66lb argument was discovered where wolves feared to tread and 30 were hurt in soap riots near the Iraq-Holland border. Christ's third coming recieved its long overdue column inch convincing Amanda to take her three way mirror to a coincidence blackspot where floral vandals were drowning an alleged newsagent. "I like doing it" she said. Aqualungs took up all available space forcing the vandals' ever encompassing pseudo elegance to be smeared from the chalkboard.
Reddened wrists were making a comeback.