The sled had been carved from the flesh of an angry block of cheddar. You're probably thinking, "Cheddar doesn't have any flesh." Well, no, not anymore. The sled stood silently, as most sleds tend to do. One day it decided that the sledding life wouldn't do. It wanted to prepare and then ingest pastries. You see, the sled had this theory that when one prepared one's own pastries, one's pastries tasted a lot better to one's tastebuds. It was quite wrong. Pastries actually tasted best when prepared by a young girl named Adell who lived in Geneva, Switzerland.
The watermelon had been born as a cute little seed, and was spat from the mouth of a coal engineer. Oddly enough, the coal engineer had never eaten watermelon. It is assumed he recieved the seed while kissing someone who did eat watermelon, and didn't have the nerve to spit out the seeds. But of course, this is silly. The watermelon had grown up and slowly become green and oval and juicy on the inside, much to it's embarrasment. It felt that it was more oval than the other watermelons.
The camel was the kind of camel you had to grow to love. You know the kind of camel I'm talking about, I'm sure. The kind of camel that bites and kicks and screams and refuses to help around the house. The kind of camel that comes home late every night and bitches about the TV without bothering to change the channel. The kind of camel that will bite your head off while you're having tea with the Queen. You know. That kind of camel.
The head was a fairly average head, except in that it was still alive, whereas most heads are dead. The head had a face and some hair. The face was something of an individualist and once tried to lead a revolution against the head, but the hair didn't have the nerve to go along with it, and the nose and eyes had chickened out before the battle could really get started. The head stood on top of a neck. It was rather nervous about being separated from the neck, for it had heard rumours about how heads need blood from the heart to survive. These were false, of course, it was pro-heart propaganada.
The sled was the first to escape from it's personal prison. It jumped off the
balcony and landed on the large Alp right behind the chateau, and headed towards
downtown Geneva. A few religious groups denounced it as the second coming of
Christ and other such blatherings, but eventually gave up on the grounds that it
was a sled. The sled screeched to an annihilating stop at the bottom of the
Alp. The Alp is a bit character in this story, and we likely won't hear about
him anymore. How about a round of applause for the Alp.
The watermelon had had just about enough of its slavery aswell. Through a
series of handshake deals in dimly lit Italian nightclubs with hostile looking
golf clubs, the watermelon made the plans for a breakout. But this was no
ordinary escape with pablum and rebel wool and the works. No. Not this time.
At midnight that night, seventeen and a half pairs of scissors were dropped at
random (or as close to random as the scientists would allow) locations
around the world so as to confuse the UN and occupy the Italian
militia, slowing their reaction time. A black die was added to the South
China Sea for absolutely no reason. A gang of seemingly innocent tomatoe
freaks ran through the ivy league cemetary and flung open the harsh, angry,
modern, stylish gates of the watermelon yard in northern Milan. They quickly
found the watermelon, separating it from its cohorts by its very oval shape.
Using some wax paper they had smuggled across the border from St. Kitts, they
sliced the watermelon free from the vine. They shot it, just to make it look
realistic, and sped off into the night across the Swiss border. They arrived in
Geneva by 5am the next afternoon. He dined in a cafe with a nice view of the
water fountain.
For the camel, escape was just a way of life. Every day, he woke up, escaped
from bed, escaped from the bedroom into the hallway, escaped from the upper
floor of his house to the lower floor of his house, escaped into and out of the
washroom, and finally fled his house in terror, as the Nazi snipers bled bullets
at him from the eighth floor of his ever-so-subtle home. He escaped across the
deserts of Northern Arabia. He fled and fled and fled until he couldn't flee
anymore. And then he went home. But not today. Today he took an extra swig of
the old womb juice and launched himself north. Little did he know he wandered
not straight north, but magnetic north. Several minutes later, and again several
days later, he was in downtown Geneva. By the water fountain.
Only the head had to actually separate itself from a human neck, as it would
constantly remind the strangers who really had better things to do. The head
accomplished this in several ways. First, he built (or rather, instructed the
body he was attached to to build) a time machine, and teleported back to 18th
century France. He worked hard (or rather, had the body he was attached to work
hard) and quickly became a mattress and box spring set the revolutionary army.
One night, as Napoleon lay gently upon his mattress and box spring set,
the head said, "Hey Napoleon, you think you're tough, you're not." This wasn't
a very good put down, but the head had had a tough day, what with the wheat
crisis in the south etc. Napolean quickly played right into the head's hands,
so to speak, and ordered the head to be removed from the body via the
guillotine. The guillotine was all too happy to oblige. The head, now
separated from its cumbersome body, now leapt back into the future. The time
machine was still in the future, so he had to do it with willpower alone.
Needless to say, he wound up in Geneva, at the gas pump, across from the water
fountain.
The head noticed the camel and gingerly walked over to it. "Hey," said the
head. The camel blushed and said something along the lines of, "Fuck off,
I don't talk to heads... not now.. not since..." Here the camel's voice
trailed off like buttery monks.
The watermelon put down the large woman and walked over to the head and the
camel. "Is there some sort of trouble here, lads?" he asked, in watermelonese.
Unfortuantely for the watermelon, the phrase "Is there some sort of trouble
here, lads" means "Weren't you the guy I found up my goat's anus that morning"
in English. The head and the camel were embarrassed at having been found out,
and began to drive large spikes into the watermelon, presumably in an effort to
puncture it.
Suddenly, the sled awoke and found that the head, the camel and the watermelon
were standing on top of it. "Egad," it thought, nervously.
Fourteen years later, all of them lay dead at the bottom of the Volga River.
The moral: Hey...