He was absolutely tearing up the place with his dance moves. Oh, man – these squares had never seen moves like this. They couldn’t keep up. They’d cleared the dancefloor for him. He had all the space he wanted. He was strutting like a peacock. He was grooving like some kind of groovy dance god. He w- FLURP! Oh, no. There was no dancefloor. There was only his bedroom, if you could call a gap between two big bins with a cardboard roof a bedroom. He wasn’t strutting now. In fact, his sole concern now was to get up without smearing the turd into his clothes and sleeping bag worse than it already was.
The blastwave atomised the house and the scullery in which he crouched, rendering every bit of his body unto the wind in a moment and rudely forestalling the issuance of the thick final testament he’d hoped his colon would have time to divulge.
She rubbed the warm, squidgy gallbladder all over his cheeks and tried to stuff it into his mouth, leering at him and making taunting noises. He pursed his lips tightly but still tried to smile, reminding himself that all interviews were getting harder and focusing on the fact that he’d be taking home nearly twice as much as in his current job, albeit his cleaning costs would be higher.
He masticated contemplatively the delicious layers of pastry and salmon before swallowing and making way for a draught of that deep, luxurious Chateauneuf. Just as he placed the crystal goblet down, and thank goodness not a moment later, his lights went out and he splodged down into the salmon en croute, cream sauce squirting rudely out onto the table and his mouth falling open in the most undignified way, half-chewed food spilling out onto the plate as his hosts stood and rushed to see if he was OK, which he wasn’t.
He meant only to flatulate at her, but instead he fully discharged himself, most of his emissions admittedly falling to the floor, but also a goodly spray of near-liquid paste and poopsome chunks splattering onto her beige cardigan and her face, her eyes protected by the cucumber slices but the face pack soon becoming heavily stained with crud.
“No, you’re having porridge today. We all are. Try it. It’s nicer than it looks,” said Mum. Jennifer gulped melodramatically. “I literally cannot ev-” CRASH! Suddenly Pete from next door hurled himself full-force in through the kitchen window, tumbling awkwardly over the tap and falling off onto the floor between the sink and Dad, his body lacerated in several places and the porridge issue now moot thanks to the shards of broken glass scattered across the table and most of the room.