Nur wer Spocht macht, darf Kokosöl in sein mit Magermilch angerührtes Müsli kippen!
Alle anderen nehmen Cola, die hat immer noch weniger Kalorien als die fette Milch!

Clyde should never have left mother's household. Who was this Freud anyway, that bearded, bitter looking man with the cigar, who hang (why, his photograph of course!) on the wall behind Doctor LeGrande's conspiciously untidy desk and was worshipped by her like an idol?
Some smart ass Jew from Austria with a dirty mind who read too much Greek tragedies, that's what he was! Oedipus, Schmoedipus – mother and he should have stayed together, especially after father's accident! They would have overcome their estrangement and, in the long term, grown even closer together as they had been before. They would deepen their bond, their relationship would mature and ripen and bear wonderful fruits. They would have so much fun together, but meaningful, grown up fun! They would spend their mornings cutting out obituaries from the local newspaper and their afternoons diskussing sophisticated crime novels, or perhaps... even committing some crimes themselves. Not necessarily sophisticated crimes, but no petty crimes either. Grand crimes. Stealing limousines, robbing state banks, killing policemen. The press would call them „Mommy & Clyde“ and there would be three hot meals every day and fresh and ironed underwear every morning, either!

„As a matter of fact: We have the best apple pie in the county. The best icecream soda, best fries, best hamburgers as well. But the apple pie is legendary! Here, trie a piece of the pie – it's on the house! Open up: here comes the pie...“
The stranger opens up. And so does the pie. The pie is opening up, it is opening up and bleeding apple-blood, a pale yellow-green slime, semi-translucent, with little rubbery apple-pieces like unfertilized eggs or maggots in fetal position. Little disgustings slimy things, who come and haunt you at night. Mucussuccubi.
The stranger keeps his mouth open, because it's more appropriate than ever. And then the pie begins to fly. Launches from the plate, hovvers a second above the open mouths, now they are legion, and finally drifts out of an open window into the afternoon heat and up to the autumn sky: a flying saucer's escape pod wedge that's bleeding apple-blood, a flying venus delta that spits out its half undead offspring.
Higher and higher into the sky it rises, a golden glowing vagina, flying in the sky and laughing about all the pudding-brains down on the ground, who haven't the slightest idea what's going on. Eternal bliss, eternal ecstasy, eternal pie in the sky. Down there, only dust. Road dust, sawdust, stardust. Dust. 57 flavours of dust with zero calories.

http://escapepod.org/2007/05/10/ep105-impossible-dreams/