Cometh the hour, drinketh the tea.  Ceylon succours!  Brist to thy mill, my decimo modulo.  Undergunned and outperforated, nudibranches sprout multifariously from the Great Orme's latitudinous valve.  Press thy lips to the slug's salty slime, scrotfurtler, and dance visceral fandangos where the moominfish fair grint.

Listen Now

Crank my ever-yodeling gramophone and slurp forth the delightful drips of:

• Vladimir Djambasov - 33:8
• Kevin Dymond & Mark Shafer - Produce Bag
• Hermanos Guzanos - Dance Like A Geek
• Evan Cantor - Jeff Coat's Couch
• The Cease - Equalizing Distort
• Girls On Fire - Electric Guitar
• Ljubomir Velev - My Aunt Has
• Ken Clinger - Hello

The great overhanging beermat of [email protected] stands ever-vigilant to receive and process your unfortunate wailings.  Forgive them, for they know not what they don't.

Twenty minutes.  No refunds.

Tan sandstone blocks, upon which lies like a shroud a vaporous husk, the branch system of a long-dead ivy, blushing dark cobweb of dusky vine.  What enormous tonnage, what great weight of crumbling stone. All we lack is longterm thinking; the perspective of aeons.  Civilisation as we know it can not be saved, could never in its entire history have ever been saved, as it has never existed in stasis.

Listen now.

A pair of wax candles in the shape of skulls, one candyfloss pink, the other pale green; an origami heron standing two inches tall; a pair of mustard-yellow clogs tied together by a small ribbon in the colours of the Dutch flag; and the soothing sounds of:

The ever-listening, enormous floating ear of [email protected] is ready to take your call.  Zardoz commands you to transmit your crackling netherwords into its pulsating cavity.

Twenty minutes.  No refunds.

How furcate is my volley! How splend the strand of string that strays from straggle heath to sponly suedes!  As Swayze sways, these rays persuade, he's raised the waves from wasteful ways.  A length of clothespipe, flurdled in a codheap. Did your mother mither? Does your mister pass muster?  (I blessed a blister-blaster with much bluster.)  You can eat an orange, and arrange a lozenge, but a blo-jo from Bo-Jo's a no-no.

Listen Now.

More scintillatingly schizoid psychedelic skitterings for squiffy squirrels and squinny sesquipedalians, from the unlikely likes of:

Gosh, barely a month since the last one.  I urge you to stuff worms into my insatiable craw at [email protected].

Twenty minutes.  No refunds.

Gnolling cloudless and winsome o'er the hobbledy froom, a snipjack trejury come treacling langwards from netherlandish parts.  Hobskoosh onely wonders, the pibbletosh skim skimmety-skim on glasslake ribble.  Nabberlack lip-licker frusking out the vanguard as pottle fall dreamylike through wode, long loomy wode, a light as baffleghast as wronglesky, these dabble-dark miff of posk and ratchet.

Listen Now.

So cram this claggy clamour in thy clammy clam-likes:

Once in a new balloon, I check for discarded tissues caught among the detritus at [email protected], thus far to precious little of what is apparently termed "avail."  Go on, prove me wonky.

Twenty minutes.  No refunds.

Jellyfish desperate to save their habitat crammed themselves a hundredfold into the nozzle, but the reactor continued to function.  The queen's coronation pie was stuffed to the brim with lamprey, slave blood still dripping from their toothy maws, their gaping buccal funnels. They opened their pineal eyes and wept, as ancient worms transformed the Shepherd into a Beatle.  Windswept Johnskale watched from his Cumbrian pile, the deacon's mission long since abandoned, the seas afizz with effluent...

Listen Now.

Open your pineal ear to the breathtaking seashell grumbles of:

Please send pipecleaners to the ever-ready [email protected], for our nozzle is forever congealed.

Twenty minutes. No refunds.

When tender frond the turlingdromes, and vestas whiffle from their homes, out in the misty magma moonlight, neeping in the afternoon, bright Lesmerelda flaunts her chubbles, great malinky double-bubbles.  What a wald!  I wadnae yield to see her famed delights revealed!  But hush now son, and graze your kneesden.  My poem's done.  OH GOD NOT THE BEES-den?

Listen Now.

What's a year or so between fronds, eh?  I trust you'll enjoy the exciting machinations of:

Future excursions will follow a release schedule dictated by Fibonacci numbering.  Voice your objections to the Esoteric Council of Elbers at [email protected] if it would make you feel any better about it.

Twenty minutes.  No refunds.

The ungudly abuminations multiplied twentyfold in mere hours, gnashing their gnarled dentata and puffing out those coarsely bristled cheeks.  The growls and grufflings bargled forth long and loudsome, trombonerous and chewbattic rumbunctions resonorating echoey through the corridrobes, surgeries and hauleyways.

Listen Now.

Lord Brannigan-7 relaxed briefly his pursed inner lips, and gave full chuffed splattering vent to the following liquid residue:

The research facility was reported destroyed by fire late in 2158.  The final transmission received by [email protected] read in its entirety: "The Vortex never ended."

Twenty minutes. No refunds.

An old woman walking her dog in a field of clover came across a shepherdess looking over her flock of forty-six brown sheep and two dozen lambs.  Each sheep wore upon its face a pair of half-moon spectacles and an embarrassed expression (the lambs just wore the glasses.)  The old woman asked the shepherdess why her flock looked so bashful.  The shepherdess said she'd sheared her share of shameful sheep, and sat down in the shamrock.

Listen Now.

If you listen to the sounds, the following merry jingles should resonate:

If you have enjoyed these sheep, please send knitted blankets to [email protected] to ward away the scowling demons of frostbite.

Twenty minutes. No refunds.

Will you face the racing thoughts that swell and swirl around your goldfish bowl, those thoughts that swallow you up whole and wrap themselves around your soul? And did you ever stop to place a guiding gentle hand upon your face and say, be still now child, and stop your foolish self from running wild?

Listen Now.

In clear water running over sand can be seen the undisturbed reflection of moonlight upon still branches, and the weeping faces of:

Anyone still standing should voice their inevitable complaints to [email protected] wherein they will be digitally remastered for outstanding reproduction on today's demanding audio hardware.

Twenty minutes. No refunds.

A sprinkling of dusty flakes, the dead skin that makes crusts upon the brow and which blizzards away as one's forehead creases in blowzy consternation, fall lightly upon the humpbacked bellypaunch, the curly-haired chest.  One is reluctant to move, lest they drift onto the upholstery.  Best remain, then, sofa-besnared, until the tender springs of summer push forth their curling tendrils, and the haberdasher's secret love sprouts once more among the soft furnishings.

Listen Now.

The tapestries tremble in the breeze, their threads a-quiver to the invigorating vacillations of:

Troubled by inappropriate Paisley deprettifying your textiles?  Unwanted Adinkras tergiversating in your tattersall? Drop a line to [email protected], where your damasks will be deconstructed beyond all compare.

Twenty minutes. No refunds.