The following is a story which is continually growing, being continued on this thread.
One fine Thursday, I woke up to find that I was totally naked. My mother knocked at the door and said "Breakfast is ready!!!"
"That's odd", I thought; she doesn't usually knock, but simply walks in. I got dressed and wondered why my right sock was placed on the end of my beloved cat’s nose. "Miaow!" said the sock. I smiled at it, then thought "wow" and grabbed my shiny new wallet. After going downstairs I had breakfast but the cat stole my bacon! The little bugger. I chased my little sweetheart and killed the cat's fleas with a large axe and two bottles of Lucozade. My back now hurts.
Abandoning breakfast, I grabbed my mandolin and promptly headed to the shower for a quick (this scene removed) with the cat. Upon hearing a large marmoset with my father's bagpipes I obtained some, I decided that I hadn't enough patience for this, burnt the bagpipes, and saved some time by burning the most flammable cat as well.
The RSPCA arrived and immediately decided I had violated the cat burning regulations of the Grand Chieftan of France. I objected because I knew that the Grand Chieftan was not actually a real person, and was in fact the pseudonym of John the Baptist's real great great grandson. So I cooked the remains of the RSPCA employee and buried them by the cat in the corner then left for the national convention of accident-prone chicken barbers. I lost the ability to decypher all the entrails, and began to panic as they attacked the small group of RSPCA inspectors.
The cat's entrails began to grow into a large representation of the unfinished work of the late great Van der Wop and his psycopathic donkey-monkey-th*ng whose evil intentions were extremely evil, very, very evil, so amazingly evil that they wouldn't be out-eviled by a dirty bogbrush, not even if it drips with a plop, plop, sort of noise.
The chicken barbers went to university, but got chucked by their girlfriends into a lake and slowly drowned.
The cat remains, The funeral procession, The cat's funeral, all ways of saying 'the dead étincelle mangue jus' but in a silly dundonian accent, one that is very very silly, so silly that when the first man with ears heard, he said 'That's Scottish!' Anyway, when the tower of cows had fallen into dissuse they were disassembled and remade as a large bowl of cat's bits which were then taken to the cats' bits shop just beside the RSPCA general headquarters. Which was funny for me, but for the RSPCA, it probably wasn't.
The following Thursday, definately not monday, it was raining cats and dogs and some geese all over the top of the house of astro-psychology, causing a rare copy of Lucien Freud's autobiography. Thankfully this was an awful book full of very superlatively tragically biographically, yet not uncharacteristicly bad writing. This made me want to touch the very end of my nose which itched slightly. The seeming unendly amount of constant drivel from Mr Freud ended at exactly the same time as the cat fell off the edge of the solar system. I kicked it. Fortunately I remembered that cats always land on large spikes and fall very ill due to the large spikes. This is obvious. I wasn't sure that my new large set of various deadly germs were quite deadly bored to death. By the cheese! I yelled as loud as a I could with an atomic bomb up my sleeve.
To be continued...