Ringing the Brunch Bell Early to the Sounds of Hip-hop in Spit of Sentiments from Tools


Breakfast is served at the pace of a sloth.
Sloth is more tender than veal.
It tastes like chicken, and smells like cooking liver.
Poking the dish was the first timer's ritual.
It'll sizzle with the best of them, spewing grease onto the floor.
The cook's call was delicious.
Al Gore protested on my lawn near Transylvania's National Park.
"No one ever thinks it's tender," Gore said, and it was true.
The cook punched the stove to alleviate the stress of a four course breakfast.
He punched at the rhythm of the jive, pummeling it like a break-dancing legend busting a move.
I was hungry because of the Communist Manifesto.
The cook proclaimed, "Boy Howdy!" when the sloth at the garnish.
The gracious patrons of influenza sat down in grinning chairs.
They were as hungry as bears entering their caves to hibernate.
The sloth tore the frying pan in two with protest.
Mac sat waiting for silverware to feed him.
We will never eat.
The stomachs will soon begin to demand food to no avail.
A broken fixit man came to repair the stove.
It was fixed in no time that couldn't wait.
"Unsere Gemüter sind auf gemacht!" exclaimed the silverware.
They jumped from the drawers with moral convictions over stabbing monkey flesh.
The fixit man screamed, "You Hack!" when the chef punched him in the bear.