“Marry Christina!” was the unified whisper of the deeply religious among the crowd.
"I do not," Christina replied to the old man 2¾ years of age.
Somewhere in the far proximity, the third mountain began to sing a tune. The trees, water, and clouds liked the tune, and thus ruined it in a beautiful cacophony. The birds, coyotes, and pianos could not join in, as they were mute. But this only further encouraged the bushes to ruffle melodically, the trumpets to smash against the ground in an apt percussive accompaniment, the caves to echo 5 molecules of lithium neonide, the ground to wave like the Queen of England performing at Las Vegas, and the church to sing tears of anger, though she had only started lessons next May. And soon the whole landscape was in chorus. The portrait had to wait until the verse, though the wrestling producers did everything they could so he could get a choral word in edgewise. It was eventually the circle that got it in cornerwise, which was only fitting, as a circle is always resplendent with corners. Corners here, corners there, corners ¾ the way now, corners sitting, corners running in place, corners jumping in the middle, corners willing to sleep a Mozarabian fiasco for ¥8.13, corners in the aerodynamic qualities above the second largest continent on the newly inducted planet former Saturnian moon Titan gallantly eating the pianos until they spill out of George Washington Brooklyn's eyebrow for the lady leeches to drink in a manner much resembling the sleet precipitation of the orange-coated boy in New Zealand, France, who amazingly recovered a tornado buried 55,000,000 years ago under the charcoal sand which had been forming for 54,999,999 noisy exajiffies.
"But why don't you?" explained Salammy al-Abama Hedrick-Kittsenbinghoustin, who had gotten the ring from his lesser grandmother's anti-pink zebra.
"Because," Christina commended, "I do not exist."
Suddenly, in Eta Canoris Mediora, a gray hole opened up which swallowed half of the universe's potential to be happy. To this day, there is controversy among sad astrophilosophers as to which half this was.
"But Christina!" he inquired, "You purchased a strawberry ice cream Danish yesterday, some 1841 days after the end of the world!"
Christina sung, "The beauty of this world is such," entranced and mesmerizing she continued, "the beauty of this world is such that I can pick up a chateaubriand pie from Goodwill and still die to see the next sunset."
"Marry me, Christina!" aahed the entire crowd and their penguins.
But Christina remained flabbergasted. She would look at the dancing trees, the proud water, the delicious stars, and see not much color. After all, a pie's treasure eye in the sky is a man's Panama canal plan trash. I have no mouth yet I must scream. I have no mouth yet I must scream. I have no mouth yet I must scream. I have no scream yet I must mouth. I have no.
"But I am already yours," orgasmed Salammy, in resemblance of a remembered black basket adorned with respected bells and phallic telephone cornucopias once drunken by Prince Articome, the solar system's foremost limerick agriculturalist.
The eighth and six thousand, ten hundredy-seven, tenth pi, hundredth half and thousandth bleemth mountains had enjoined the Russian military to invade the North Pole to brutally interview Santa Claus during their negative eleventh wedding ceremony, replete with soldering gummy worms, violent T-shirt prostitutes, lollipop adventures, and the whole family. The pond rocks were the most pious of the lot, singing glorifications of Satan and his holy ministry of which God was a small fan—an electric fan, more precisely. He was not a very impressive electric fan of that lot, killing only 6 South Koreans of hypothermia each year. However much it took, God was not up for the task. He was as down as the gas prices after the Great Arabian War.
"Kill me, Christina!" serenely enticed the starving children of the world, of which Michael Jackson had worried so much about.
"I would really love to," she exaggerated, "but I forgot how. I know I'm slacking, and I promise I'll try harder. I will! I'll do it for you! Because you are my children, and I hate you more than anything in the city." Mothers do not exist. They are a failed thesis formed by the religious piety of the Brothers Grimm! Such magical thinking may not be admitted into our intellectually eminent University of Lyons.
"Shit, I have to get my papercut!" laughed Salammy. Kneeing for the witch doctor in west Los Angeles, he ejaculated, "To God, and see you in five minutes' spacetime!"