Once upon a time, there lived a brave, handsome, hairy young man called Andy Boobie-Cattle. One day, for a laugh, he decided to walk to the moon. Dressed in his finest pajamas, his dead Grandmother’s oven gloves, a pair of Wellington boots and a goldfish bowl on his head for protection, he began his quest with a jolly fart. After jumping up and down for about seven hours without getting a foothold in the sky, he came to the conclusion that this quest would be a little more difficult than he imagined, so he gave up and went to the pub. Walking into his local, “The Buggered Sow”, he spotted his friend, Tom Baker. Grinning all over his navel, Andy gave his best wave in greetings and asked Tom if he would like a game of pool. Tom agreed to the match but, being quite, quite mad, instead of using the cue to pot the balls, he wandered outside and started batting squirrels out of trees with it, as if playing baseball. Then, after he’d sent a dozen squirrels into orbit, he re-entered the pub, dropped his crystal trousers and proceeded to empty his bladder all over the pool table with a mighty sigh. “Another game?”, Tom enquired, pulling his trousers up, with an insane, but very happy, look on his face. Andy Boobie-Cattle politely declined and thought it best to go home before the police turned up.
On his way back home, he was skipping merrily down the road, singing a selection of Bon Jovi’s greatest hits, when all of a sudden he encountered an orgasming wookie. “Graaaauaaaauaaaghhh!” moaned Matthew (for that was the wookie’s name), which, in their language means “have you got a tissue?”. Sadly, Andy did not speak wookie and, feeling threatened (and yet slightly aroused), he stabbed him with a biro, right in the gonads. Well, as I’m sure you’re all aware, the worst thing to do to a wookie in mid-climax is to stab him in the knackers with one of Bic’s finest. With the howl Matthew gave, windows smashed into smithereens, leaves fell off trees and planes, birds and satellites fell to earth with a resounding quack. Just then, Roger Daltrey appeared. He waved to the adoring, dribbling crowd (some of who appeared to be sleeping) and then disappeared, off to front Dire Straits in the absence of anyone better. Feeling slightly confused, Mr. Boobie-Cattle let out a cry of anguish. “Wub-wub-wub-wub-wub-wub!” he yowled. Immediately, a young woman started attacking him with a large, purple candle, for no apparent reason. “This isn’t my day”, mused Andy, sadly. With the large, purple candle shoved irretrievably right up his arse, he started wobbling home, like a cross between John Wayne and a perturbed, heavily pregnant crab. “I’ll never play the cello again”, he thought, before remembering that he never could before. This heavily clichéd joke made him smile, then frown, then smile again, then do an impression of Loyd Grossman, then smile, then frown and then pass away, into the night, like a randy fox, eating a Cadbury’s Wispa.
Just then, nothing appeared – which is impossible, surely?