Then came that old fartbag himself, Dick Cheney's frozen head, who proceeded to lament at great length that there was not enough broccoli and cabbage on the Senior Center menu and that consequently he was having to eat grass every day merely to have enough undigestible stuff in his system to produce the flatulence that was his trademark. It was clear that nobody wanted to listen to him -- their pelting him with condoms filled with tapioca was a clue-- but he refused to sit down (as it were), saying: "if there is one thing I believe in, it's the fillibuster!" He (it) only yielded the floor when forced to do so by Warden Bowie, who menaced him with a "Neil Diamond sings the Diamond Dogs" cd saying "by Christ and all things holy I will put this motherfucking disc on the Public Address and play "this ain't rock and roll, this is genocide" until you melt!

Emily the Belle was unable to make it to the meeting.  She was up in her room putting the final touches on her makeup, arranging her lingerie, fluffing the pillows on her damask bed, all prepatory to her webcam debut on GGGILF.COM (great great grandmothers I'd like to ___"). There is no truth to the rumor, by the way, that she has had breast-enhancing surgery. She's stacked because God made her that way.

The Plague Mill Senior Center group meeting came to an abrupt end when Cortez the Killer (you were expecting maybe Liberace?) stood up and hollered, "I HATE GETTING OLD! ALL MY TEETH HAVE TURNED TO CHALK" and pronounced that he was off to find his backup cutlass, the better to remove some spinach unaccountably lodged between his upper right incisor and bicuspid.

Then all arose and held hands, saying "it works if you work it" and sung in sweet harmony the Plague Mill anthem:

You have two eyes of different hues.
For you are something beautiful, a contradiction.
I will not let you murder it.
I have love for your entities.
This is magesterial; important.
I am most for truth-saying. I am seriosity.
This is now loud; pulsating.
I am pushing it like a dog on fire.