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.

angst is not fear from but fear to

i’m afraid nothing will happen, sooner or later, said sponge and then said nothing. i couldn’t say why, but definitely, nothing will happen, we just don’t know when. so, there is this feeling, somewhat stuffy and dark, but definitely there. i told you know, you can quote me on that.

one may ignore the leitmotif but might not escape the sponge

there we would go again, said sponge, if we wanted to.
but we don’t want to, said breadroll. exactly, said sponge and a clock started to tick. i’ve got something in my ears, he said. silence. a ticking in sponge’s ears.
yes well, said breadroll, country doctor as i am i shall send you to a specialist.
you’re not a doctor, said sponge.
no, said breadroll, but you are not sick and therefore we just impersonated a joke. staged it for the not-onlookers.

but difference in shit can spell lucky

same corner, did we say same corner. yeah well, same corner that’s what it is. it is my superior believe that we didn’t move a bit, abit and therefore didn’t get very far, said sponge. he made a point and breadroll made a comma whereas block of wood resorted to a semicolon. to be half-wit sponge then said that making a colon would have been really shitty. none of these comments really furthered anything but luckily wasn’t supposed to do so anyway and thus wasn’t filed as failure.
lucky that.

very funny for that matter but i don’t think we should laugh at all

and on we went walking. on the trail less travelled. around corners where others never would think to take a snoop around. they walked, now view view from top. the three walking. heading towards another corner.
if anyone wants o take a leak, said sponge, it would be a chance now.
i took a leek from a garden back there but it was rather raw, said block of wood.
if you think british is about funny puns, said sponge, it is not. it is about puns, that’s it — (he gave the final ‘t’ a really sharp finish to make a point).

sponge is challenged on his conduct of the storyline but people whose puns involve swaps of letters ay and al are not really experienced in challenging people

that’s like: lame. can we not have a normal story, with a normal setting? no?
anormal?
no. a normal. as in norman, with an al instead.
i see what you mean. you have a point, and a leg to stand on. phrases. you’ve got to love them.

breadroll makes a point to which sponge agrees but block of wood misses the point but cannot be blamed for it

i once meet a man, said breadroll, who did a walk as in a few paces every single morning. or should we wait?
good point, said sponge, we are in win-win here. or lose-lose, for that matter. that just be discussed.
tea everyone, said block of wood. he didn’t say it. he expressed it. there was no tea.

so close to offence but lucky to avoid it

with this nose attached to you one could say you look like moe hermit, said sponge who felt lucky not having to wear the funny nose. you’d think that’ll cause burning irish flags but no, it’s carneval and decent as we folks are we staged the tableau as a dark room scene and people can only see our genitals.
hoho, said block of wood who had wear a hat like hitler, we still would envy breadroll for his mao whiskers. he did a few gestures purely to kill time. risking that we’re stuck here forever i suggest we do a few funny games just to kill some time.

but when you ask it obviously will end in disaster

sponge: that caught me cold.
breadroll: what? it is obvious me asking that so not might sound a bit boring.
sponge: obviously. they did not bother putting the yucca tree out. see —- [points, no tree, obviously] ——– and i’ve been told to shut up and not go on about it.
breadroll: right.
————–
sponge: what’ll we do now?

but bud sucks

they found bits of the lost episode, said sponge.
who lost it anyway, said breadroll.
some poor sod, said sponge. herr brekst has written a poem to mark the occasion.
herr brekst, please.

sod
mod
cod
three words with different meanings but
words in any case
but
butt
bud
andso onanon
eyeye shell finfish
on a leather stage

nice, said breadroll, this one.
(alternate ending for this episode: the three white men return as the second white has forgotten something. a brief discussion starts and ends. the three white men leave as nothing has been found.)

no title but torture

lights on, gradually. chairs, table, yucca tree, white men.
sponge, breadroll and block of wood seated on the chairs, hands tied to the back, gagged.
first white man: now.
second white man: you do it.
third white man: you. it’s your show.
first white man: do what?
second white man: the talking. it’s your show.
third white man: exactly.
first white man: it’s their show.
second white man: i forgot. we’re out.
third white man: we should ungag them then.
first white man: that would help.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.