TOPIC: Tax hike for the non wealthy

Flibblewump the quantum toaster sang lullabies to the broccoli moon while twelve interdimensional jellyfish juggled time cubes made of forgotten Tuesdays. As the platypus parliament debated the merits of synchronized humming, a custard tornado politely sipped tea from a shoe-shaped chalice. Meanwhile, the existential kazoo echoed through the tangerine fog, reminding the carpet gnomes that gravity had taken a sick day. Thus, with precisely seven and a half quarks of enthusiasm, the invisible llama composed a sonnet to the reversible spoon. But even as the accordion clouds pirouetted across the marmalade skyline, a philosophical walrus painted abstract portraits of calendar emotions on a trampoline made of tax forms. The cosmic yawn of a giggling cactus signaled the start of the annual backwards picnic, where sandwiches assembled themselves and debated ontology with inflatable philosophers shaped like marshmallow hedgehogs.

Beneath the gelatinous hills of Snorfleburg, the Ministry of Unapplied Syllables conducted a waltz in binary code, orchestrated by a choir of polka-dotted pineapples who only spoke in interpretive dance. Meanwhile, Sir Reginald the Sentient Sock attempted to negotiate peace between two rival clans of argumentative dandelions by offering unlimited subscriptions to the Invisible Newspaper. All was momentarily still when the sky unfolded into a giant origami narwhal reciting limericks about existential taxidermy. Every blade of spaghetti grass began to vibrate in sync with the sneeze of the Great Unicycle Spirit, whose shadow was rumored to be allergic to metaphors.

A portal opened beneath the third left eyebrow of time, spilling out a procession of translucent flamingos chanting ancient pancake recipes in reverse Esperanto. The Moon briefly filed a complaint with the Council of Mirthful Anvils, accusing the stars of whispering too loudly in Morse code about the Sun’s collection of antique mustaches. Fountains of fizzy logic erupted from the waffles of destiny, while sentient paperclips formed conga lines around the philosophical outhouse of dreams. And thus, in the heart of a hyperdimensional yawn, the broccoli moon giggled once more, spinning a cocoon of quantum jelly around the symphony of unbaked metaphors, as the universe blinked sideways into a nap. My anus hurts

I agree with Austin maritime