Where's my moo-cow?

"For a moment there I thought someone was in charge," said Arthur. "But you're just another stereotype like the Jamaicans and those superfluous Bolsheviks." And he helped Hannibal forcibly to some cauliflower cheese, which had not previously existed.

"Get real!" said Hannibal, "you know that isn't a wig!"

They pressed SHIFT+ALT+CTRL+BREAK, had a garlic pizza and escaped from their limbic goatherd. Four hundred and thirty-something revoltingly mauve fried cucumbers dropped expectedly (un) out of an odd-smelling grille in the floor (for there is little gravity in outer time). "Oh my God!" blasphemed the Pope, from his painful staple-bed; "Where's Mr T?" screamed Hannibal, who had just stubbed his cigar on the door and his toe on the... door; "Where's my moo-cow?" asked T.S. Eliot, making a rather more explicit than usual appearance in the polt. Line? Not in this goon! And James Galway laughed and blew them all up.