some lives are worse than others but the stories are all the same

with a head in his hat and feet in his shoes he left the house, whistling a tune; he stopped whistling when he was hit by a breeze. that’s in short what happened in the first five minutes. then man joined the first queue he saw. people were queuing for all sorts of things, depending who you cared to ask. in the evening everyone remaining in the queue was arrested for loitering, the man decided to leave the house a bit earlier next time. due to an administrative error, however, the man was flown to an undisclosed location where he had to endure interrogation, abuse, torture, one civil war, two violent uprisings, a series of civil unrest and two general election, the second preceeded by a bloodbath during which the winning party promised to do away with all those responsible for the bloodbath, the only promise they kept after the election, which caused a third bloodbath and the survivors sent the man home. on return he joined the queue outside his house, he felt confident but was arrested again. the story gets a bit repetitive here.
is that a true story, said breadroll.
based on one, said sponge.

ungood tendencies

chumchums we are, said sponge, as to emphasise what i pointed out previously. a certain fatigue has snked in and we are set to tackle it err it. for modernists we even throw in a few letter combinations. speeeeetch iz ze trigger off zet ohl fnnnnn.
in all fair- and rroundness, said breadroll, pass the fat butteer. ze yellow wan. pls.
iz ze gutt ze brott, said sponge. whensa the germann accento gonnah endh. we’re going on slippy slippers wearing slips only sense-of-humour-wise.
that’s alright, said sponge, somebody is goinck to come.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.