Champion Finalists

freaking horse heads don’t get it when a gorilla hawk tries to rip his future husband from the clutches of a vivacious sloth whom has just become Nevada’s new governor and is on a trip to the edge of Hong Kong’s lemon expressway where the sun doth shine the moon doth grow into a giant green crab-wolf that can spit fire that smells like melted cheese sticks slipping down peanut-brittle slides built on candy corn playgrounds that attract only the ugliest of shooting-star babies (although their comet streams streak the longest across the sky) that were clubbed by leopard seals with cricket bats forged from the eternal flames of Love.

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Come On, Eileen

homosapiens do not understand how candy corn reptiles can be the ultimate cobbler gobblers when inspired by the Bulgarian songs of the Firefly Forests where flightless eagles dance on one foot and hoola-hoop with the other and scream, “Oh, you’re a Rich Girl!” At the top of their lungs which then attracts the Pepperoni People of Cakeland whom then cry and cry and cry until they laugh at the forgotten socks and popcorn dogs that once ruled the Realm of Elephants but was laid ruin by the malicious crescent moon-born-manta rays where crumbling walls and tunnels that echo the Beatles are plagued by floods of fruit loops and crumbling cookies and lollipops and BARBRA STREISAND which is only survived by silver, neon orange, and lavender tigers that hide in faulty pillow forts and when struck by lightning turn into wallflowers, basking in the setting sun. No Angels like Nutella.

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