It was a bright cold day in case you were wondering, and the clocks were striking again. It was always such a pain when the clocks went on strike. No one knew what time it was. The hippies found it liberating, but that's hippies for you. Winston Smith, his wife Winona, their only child Winston Jr. and his brother Walter, were home eating dinner. Winston kept the copy of Girls Reverting To A Primitive State nuzzled into his breast in an effort to hide it from his wife the vile wind, who would no doubt disapprove. He ate his dinner quickly through the feeding tube he had installed in his throat, allowing for the speedy inhalation of any form of sustenance, and excused himself from the table. Upstairs, with the door locked and the sound on the TV turned down, Winston inserted the videotape. The screen flickered to life, and there before him were the lively and vivacious ta-tas of sickeningly drunken college girls. Winston caressed himself in a manner that was totally offensive to his deeply religious parents, but luckily they weren't in the room to complain. He'd made that mistake before. The tape was better than The Buxom Wenches of Victory Mansions, though not quite as hot as You Got Your Poodle In My Schnoodle: The Uncensored Version. Still, it was enough to work himself into a frenzy, releasing a swirl of gritty dust from himself. Hmm, he thought aloud, that doesn't seem right. Perhaps I should see the doctor about that. And after several days of similarly dusty releases, Winston indeed did take a trip to the family physician, being careful not to bring his family along with him.

   The doctor said his dust smelt of boiled sheep stomach and old men. Winston asked the doc why he was smelling his sample; a question the doctor deftly evaded. Instead, he decided to examine Winston's genitals, but strictly in a clinical way. At one end of it a coloured protuberance, too large for any woman to take in, had been tacked to the end of his wang. There was an image on it, a painting or tattoo of some sort. It depicted simply an enormous [text omitted, ed.], more than a metre [text omitted, do you seriously want to get this blue and juvenile? Ed.] Winston watched in horror the face of a man with the world's biggest [text emphatically omitted; I've warned you enough about this. I don't know where you're taking this story, but I'll tell you right now we're not going to publish this, ed.], with a heavy black coc[no, I'm cutting this off, this is totally rude and irresponsible, I am disgusted at having to even be a party to this, ed.] When he returned home, Winona was impressed with how dashing and ruggedly handsome Winston seemed. He was brimming with a new self-confidence. Winston made love to [You know what? I'm just gonna throw up my hands and walk away. This seemed kind of promising in the early going, but then it just turned into the worst sort of adolescent penis gag. You know, why don't you try a different take on this material? Nix the dick jokes and maybe write some sort of prescient social dystopia story instead. Anything would be better than this drivel, ed.] And that's when Walter fell down the stairs. 

   It was a bright cold day in Hell, and the clocks were striking poses. Winston Smith, his pizza nuzzled into his breast in an effort to savor the vile wind, Moon walked quickly through the porta potties of Victory Mansions, though not fancy enough to entice a swirl of gritty dust from Michael Jackson along with him.

   The underpants smelt of boiled rubbers and old used cheese. At one end of it a coloured ball sack, too large for human consumtion, had been tacked to the elastic band. It depicted simply an enormous package, more than a metre long, slaping across the face of a man bitch, with a heavy black woman and ruggedly handsome hemroids. Winston made magic cupcakes on the stairs. 

   It was a bright cold day in Lake Minnetonka, and the clocks were striking innocent wristwatches, keeping them in line to let them know who's the bitches in timekeeping. Winston Smith, his pet lint ball Larry, and an undiscloed billiard ball were nuzzled into his breast in an effort to verbally molest the vile wind, knowing full well that emotional scars cut much deeper. Since his ears were unusually runny, he scuttled quickly through the Chuck E. Cheese-style miniature kid's door of Victory Mansions, though not acrobatically enough to prevent the decapitation of Larry. As he peered down at his former live-in companion since 1989, a swirl of gritty dust from Larry's lint torso, if you can call it that. "Fuck it," he thought, "I'll just glue some pocket lint on him later," and he took what was left of Larry along with him.

   The Bob Newhart Room smelt of boiled billiard balls and old issues of Prevention. At one end of it a coloured page from a rare Sex Pistols coloring -- oh, excuse me -- colouring book, too large for any refridgerator that man has seen, had been tacked to the cork board along with a pinned-up collection of napkins from fast food restaurants from around the world. It depicted simply an enormous turnip, more than a metre in circumference, if drawn to scale correctly, and the face of a man can be made out on the side. It's Tom Sizemore, with a heavy black leech on his nose and ruggedly handsome cheekbones, which were poking out through it's skin. "Man, that's one fucked up turnip, Larry," Winston said. "Wonder where the can is?. Winston made those weird little squirty sounds as he duck-walked up the stairs. 

   It was a bright cold day in Hell, quite a surprise for everyone there, and possibly a sign that things weren't going well. The dogs were all playing on a slip-and-slide, and the clocks were striking old women like it was a sport. Winston Smith, his royal wetness, rode in on a Vespa with an insane carnivorous chicken nuzzled into his breast in an effort to put his body odor to the final test. Winston's indescribable breath, known as the vile wind, raced quickly through the hallways of Victory Mansions, though not quite foul enough to turn a rotten egg inside-out, it still raped the nostrils of everyone in the building within seconds of his arrival. Winston's fellow Mansion-mates thanked their lucky stars for a swirl of gritty dust from the public toilet that smelled quite nice in comparison to Winston when it traveled along with him.

   The old man down the hall smelt of boiled old people, which was quite strange. The young woman upstairs smelt of fresh gangrene and old tacos. At one end of it a coloured Chinaman, Pink, befouled the long hallway's air. And at the other, a near-midget, too large for official midget status, brewed up his own impolite stench. One poor, mangled Christmas Tree air freshener, had been tacked to the resignedly peeling wallpaper, as a joke. Next to that was a yellowed cartoon cut from the paper. It depicted simply an enormous dead whale, more than a metre from nuts to bung, over the humorously scrawled caption "Who Farted?" On the wall next to this was scribbled the face of a man crying.

   To make matters worse, someone had recently died in the building, but due to the smell the authorities weren't sure where the body was. Some suspected it to be in 304, with a heavy black dude who had, no shit, fallen through the ceiling and into Winston's apartment on three separate occasions. On the plus side, however, the dude did have a nice hat collection, and ruggedly handsome cheeks. Winston made water on the stairs.

Milestones

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