These things were revealed to me in a dream last night. I don't want you to become a spaghettipudding man. Just trust me, OK? You have to slonk more eggs, Davo. You have to become the slonkiest of slonkers, OK? Just trust me. Trust me? OK? Can trust I me you please in the the the the the the the the the the the the end sentence and post

A voice echoed from the void, or perhaps from beneath the jelly, or perhaps from within David's own mind: "You’re running out of time, David. The spaghetti’s boiling."

And with that, the unicycle collapsed into a puddle of lasagna, and David, now part spaghetti, part pudding, was swept away by a gust of wind that smelled like pickles and regret.

David looked down at his feet, which were now wearing tap shoes made of pancakes. He didn’t remember eating any slippers, but the accusation felt correct, as though his entire existence was tied to the crime of slipper consumption. Australians are always like this, see, always taking the blame for things they didn't do. David realized this, and immediately felt indignant. It's not his fault aboriginals are underperforming in schools, and it's not his fault that the sky cabbage's slippers had been (allegedly) eaten.

"I did not!" he shouted, but his voice came out as a series of honks, like a goose in a jazz band. The cabbage laughed, the sound echoing like a chainsaw slicing through molasses.

One of the bees flew over, but simply stared with an expression of intense concentration, did not respond. Instead, it began to sing opera, but the sound was a deep, guttural growl that made the sky wobble in discomfort. The paper hats on the owls began to vibrate, sending waves of invisible electricity through the air, and a shadow fell across the horizon.

Suddenly, a giant, squawking cabbage appeared in the sky, its leaves flapping in the rhythm of a distant drumbeat. It had eyes— large, unblinking eyes— and it pointed an accusatory finger at David. "You! You are the one who ate my slippers!"

The sky, as it turned upside down, began to drip blue cheese. In the distance, a flock of purple owls with paper hats flew in perfect formation, their beaks releasing tiny bursts of confetti every time they flapped their wings. There was no wind, and yet, the clouds twisted and danced like drunken ballerinas, crashing into each other with a soft thud, only to unravel and scatter in all directions.

Underneath, a young Australian man named David stood on a unicycle made of spaghetti, spinning in place, his face smeared with mustard. He couldn’t remember how he got here, or why his feet felt as if they were growing into the ground. The ground itself was made of cotton candy, which kept changing color (that's colour in Australian) like a mood ring dipped in sorrow, then laughter. David blinked, and the cotton candy turned into a thousand tiny bees, each wearing tiny boots.

"Hello!" David called to the ground, now hat-adorned bees, "Do you have the time?"

-rep doesn't lift