someone reinstalled the moon’s nacho cheese dispenser. Florpity-fizz! Within the crystalline marshmallow caves, the grand council of waffles debated the merits of taco-shaped time travel. “Snargle the wibberflop, or suffer the wrath of the quantum kumquat. Tacos made of existential dread and happiness molecules floated whimsically past the spleen-shaped moon. "Slizzle your snarfle," whispered the enigmatic pogo-stick prophet. Meanwhile, in the Lobster Nebula, while a brigade of hover-llamas moonwalked across the galaxy, causing spontaneous tap-dancing in the Cafe de la Lune on the celestial trampoline. Nerp zerp floopity derp! Skloopity-sklonk! Beneath the infinite yogurt canopy, a legion of sentient croutons prepared