Rhubarb Madness By Tom Schmitt...

Atop a small hill, sun sinking behind the hills, carbon dioxide choking the quiet twilight, Beaker was speaking to Prof. Honeydew, wearing nothing but his wiley charms, and Bunson became enraged. That vein, (yes, that one) bulged from Bunson's felt, pale melon, as his eyes reddened, his fingers gripped themselves, creating the fist-phenomena. A cricket sang softly. A fly buzzed, unabashed.
I ask you this, I put forth this motion....
Beaker, unaware of his strange affectations, continued on, high-pitched "Meeps" cascading out in flush, harsh sound waves. See them, watch them, in wonder, wandering through the air. They float, ever-falling as gravity takes them, and crushes them in it's grip. Changing as the air infuses itself within their very core. They collide with Bunsons ear, annihilating the anvil, harrassing the hammer, eating the equilibrium, until the Professor is near hysterics, we watch as he's about to speak, to push forth spiteful syntax, belittling Beaker for his unknowing actions. Restraint prevails, however, at least for now....
"...As time stands still, the soul continues... " speaketh Beaker beautifically.
"...er...."
"...like descending through space, only easier, open-minded, merging with ions and eros, eclipsing the earth, breathtaking and bungling, a baby aware of the womb and rejecting it for a pentohouse overlooking the New York skyline as city lights wink out rousing the wake to slumber...."
"...eh...."
"...nature rejecting the moment for fear of acceptance, for tears of reluctance, for jeers of soaring crowds ripe with disease and putrifaction, stinking like a three-day-old cold, shining oil-like atop the surface of water..."
"...en...."
Beaker relinquishes, the subtle lisp fading.... Bunson stammers on.... and on.. and... on. ......