Staggering past the munchkins arrayed in great splendour–we really must come up with a more fluid and reprehensible method of governing–Ogilvie Transistorsides wondered again what had gotten into him. He meant, of course, the three quarts of spoilt milk which he had, so to speak, token.
Not normally known for his deviation from the standardized set of mind-altering chemicals, Ogilvie Transistorsides had been seduced into the spoilt milk by the gregarious and vaguely altruistic charms of Googoorian Veld, he of the spangled hat and dusty drawers. When Googoorian Veld was on the prowl, meting out his canisters of spoilt milk, well, no one was safe from his honeyed, yet dare we say forked, tongue: not the bashful schoolgirl nor the bespectacled wayward minister (he means well!) nor the subway car driver nor the washer of great greens nor, it seems, our finicky protaganist, Ogilvie Transistorsides. This in spite of his gutteral and frangled reaction to the eyeball–one might even call it an obsessive phobia, were one inclined–upon which the spoilt milk was placed for which the full efficacy was achieved.
So, this staggering about, this wanton disregard of limbs and flagpoles, wasn’t even yet about the activation or the tunnellizing into a newly (drug-induced) reality, but instead was simply the result of milk-filmed eyeballs and the trouble Ogilvie Transistorsides had seeing through it and his posterboard sunglasses–each with a cranky sun pasted on: the cranky grin, the cranky frown. He only hoped no policer was on the prowl.
Any hope of lingering with (or lingerieing, grinning) some curly hatchensnap was puffing away like so much dandelion soap. A great milky tear froozed out and from behind the sun-shadowed specks of Ogilvie Transistorsides and crept shyly down his newly shaven dew-feathered chin. It left a clear white shriek down his cheek, much to like those milk-mustachioed billboard riders, lurking everywhere these days. O, what low! when even a not-so-curvy nastachio would satisfy his jointed lustings.