„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.

und das ist auch die kernaussage des quatsches. dann gibt es noch drei nebenaussagen und eine ganz klar versteckte ansage, die nur erfahrendste interpreten rausarbeiten könnten, eventuell, aber sollen sie eigentlich nicht, denn sonst wär es ja nicht mehr quatsch pour quatsch.