Or, an awaking mind musing on punctuation

Period. Period. Period.
My aunt's name is apostrophe. And my diacritic plants black roses in my colon.

These are the types of entries found in the journal of Bob Diamond, Private Eye.
One day a dame entered his office.
They mutually masturbated until they came in such gushes over the precipice that they drowned entire cities, and the government had to relocate grand populations.
"On this fertile soil," the government said, we will build factories: olfactories! and they will grow the biggest perfume industry in the world.
The other nations, envious, formed a coalition to exploit China economically. It was called the China Investment International Coalition, or CIIC. This could have been read as a Roman Numeral. C is one hundred, "centum", but I cannot come before C, and they racked their brains for another acronym.
Unable to conceive one, the nations decided to build their own factories.
Holding hands, they commenced complex chants and dances.
(They could only use Art to produce industry, for China had the secret to Science, keeping it under lock and key.)
The factories grew and grew, but one of them died on the Chinese border, scattering leaves onto the arid land.
The Chinese tried to rake them back, but it was too late. They grew into giant babies. Trying to walk, one of them fell hard and planted the entire Earth in its colon, but it didn't know how to shit.
"Let us out!" screamed the Earth.
The baby floated in space, eating pie, and stars sparkled on its skin like diamonds.
"I want your period," the baby said: its first words. "I will eat your period," the baby said.
The story ends here, with a baby floating in space.
From the background of the cosmic sky, a nightmare emerged, her flanks reflecting as her muscles rolled to face the light source.
"I want your period," the baby said. "I will eat your period," the baby said.
She bore the baby. And her name was Black Rose.

( | ) 05:28 m.2000