The following text/sound/image thing was discovered at the bottom of a bag of second-hand surgical staples by a stout yet limber rodent called Chester...At the time s/he immediately delivered it to the Aural Initiative Potential, a pre-historical, post-hysetrical and plest-hermorphoical format confined to Babaloos's wardrobe...I mean...that is until the long deceased make it worth something; which may indeed be now? (Babaloo hasn't responded officially, so the PFW can't sue for copyright infringement).
So in that case, read on...view/listen....enjoy without fear of repression and/or leprocracy (likeprotic infestitis).
The Adventures of Al Babaloo Along the Sonic Highway
Having recently engaged JD in a battle of wills, I staggered along the road to now in search of my 'masterpiece'. Numerous genres wearing mind-bending attire jetéd out from the shadows offering me shiny leaflets that extolled the virtues and/or immoralities of their consumption. Brushing them aside with my bulbous beard, I cut west along a dreary sub-alley lined with next year's avant-garde photography. As I passed a rather stout yet limber rodent collecting acid rain from the shoes of deceased hippies, I noticed a door looming in the gloom (oh please dude!...ok. sorry about that) near my left elbow. Above the door a large, blue animatronic index finger beckoned, curling its form at 91 BPS, above which a stuttering pink neon sign glared: I announced the phrase, 'my brussels are oily' through the speakhole and the door swung open. As I stepped through the threshold I was confronted by Rae Elbow, who swiftly offered me a temporal tangerine. Obviously, I ate the thing, an act to which Rae replied,
Intro - the sonic highway