"Mgrpff," she exclaimed, as dozens of lukewarm toroids filled her hands. ‘No more neuro-guava stress this week,’ she thought hopefully as the steady glipfadinous rhythm of the toroids norgled her ano-brain beyond oblivion. But before another thought-pattern could disrupt Treflin’s lobotomic mindspan, handsome cousin Kiborde jumped from his bunnysack and screamed.
"More gapes, more tapes, more staples, more waffles, more scofflaws, more hotwoks, more Wadk-newts!"
Treflin had long since learned to ignore this behavior, common to all postgraduates of the Graduating Post Verbal Enigma Academy (AVEPG2) in Troy, Trisuita, fourth sector. As his thoughtfield-controlled sweetpants hazily melted before his rhetorical persuasions could save them, Treflin turned aside in disgust.
"Cotton candy will not do, Kiborde, no, no, no!"
Although Kiborde was 48 Earth-years old, he needed such mindless banter to save his thoughtfield sanity for senility. He would certainly have to hold onto some level of boredom before this story ended, and his life, having been pre-programmed by the Snugglophone Hyphenation Authority just before he entered AVEPG2, would end late enough as it was, without all this meddling by loose boxes of pink and green toroids skipping about his megakitchen.
"Treffie no want to blow my nose now or ever, she hate green stuff with toroidies, huh huh! She like funny circly thing better than Kibbie, yes yes! Treffie think cotton candy taste like Excrecrackers and no good for pants or nose, right right! I hate Treffie now and later and tomorrow, so so!"
Treflin worked her mouth and spat heartily into her dunker cup, feeding the rich blend to Kiborde. "There there, Kibbie, Treffie doesn’t want to see such a fine fine graduate of AVEPG2 to go thirsty. Now eat your pants with some nice Toroids. I have this pretty little blue one that will help your poor waffling, stifling, strifling, sifting, wafting and drafting headache. Eat one and see the pretty spit get all soaked up."
Kiborde took a slobber of the rainbow concoction, and quick as a nomo-phosphoidite in heat (a precious commodity in these ano-kinetic days), he died as hazily as his pants had melted. Treflin called in the Academy Guardgnomes, and as the GG's gleefully gathered the gummy graduate threads into their bunnysacks for reprocessing, she considered what her next move would be. The Aid to Descendent Children program had put a dropdeadline on Treflin’s new application, and the rest of the funds would be funneled to her Frozen Family Tree Preservation Foundation in Minerva, Ketchupf, fourth sector.
With that thought, her own toroids burped, reverse-energizing nasal sensors and sending her promptly into Resettlement Bin R-43 (TK), ending her concern as the Wadk Clergy dipped into her toasted body with their Astrospoons. Hearty, carefree and uplifting laughter filled the pseudonight air, as the Wadk ministers and their attendant newts enjoyed their Toasted Treflin Soufflé.
"Rfhgy miljgeth klorjgu, ytti?" called several in unison, as peals of high-pitched Wadkian jollity erupted from every befornersiph. And such was the warm-hearted (if indeed they had enough hearts to go around) ending to that summer’s eve.