This is a story. It might be about some stuff that never happened. It might be about stuff that really happened. It may be about stuff that I say never happened, but just because I am in denial about how this stuff really happened.
Just to give you advance warning.

Liability, etc.
a. In this contract, the reader will be referred to as "wormbelly" simply because I'm the author, and so what I say may not go, but it is what you read, and you can't do anything about it unless you have a bottle of white out, a pen, and a strange mind.
b. I, the author, reserve the right to tell you not to keep reading. I know you will even if I tell you not to, but you will violate the contract regardless.
b. In this contract, the story shall be referred to as "masterpiece" simply because it is.
d. If the "wormbelly" violates any part of this contract, the "wormbelly" must shave it's head, set fire to the shaved off hair, and put out the fire by spitting. The "wormbelly" must then dispose of this burnt hair in ways that are in accordance with New Zealand's Constitution and New York Cities bylaws concerning water treatment.

Introduction:

See the first two paragraphs.

Chapter one:

Jelly was quite bored. He/she/it was sitting in a jar on a refrigerator door. Bob (The hero of this story, in case you didn't figure that out yet) took Jelly out of the refrigerator, spooned Jelly onto a piece of toast, and dropped the toast (accidentally) from a height of six feet . The jelly fell to ground level, and, to Bob's surprise, landed jelly side up. Bob was quite surprised, screamed "Eureka!", put a duck on his head, and ran into the street singing "Peanut butter" to the tune of Jingle Bells. He was hit by an eighteen wheeler, since Bob was dumb enough to sing songs in the middle of the street.

Bob wound up quite fine, since he was made of a titanium. The truck had to stop because Bob was careful to ignore the law of the transfer of momentum. The truck driver got out of the truck, and dragged him into the trailer, which contained a cargo of babbling idiots, also known as modern artists. He was instantly accepted, and got a free ride to the local modern arts convention.

"Nice duck!" was uttered by Gene Hubert, a sculpter who created sculptures of koalas sitting on telephone poles.

"Thank you," said Bob, who, despite being quite eccentric, was very polite.

"You're quite welcome,"said Gene.

"So, where is this truck going?" asked Bob.

"Bob, you should read the second paragraph of chapter one," returned Gene.

"Oh, okay," Bob replied, and proceded to read the second paragraph of chapter one.

But before Bob could finish reading paragraph two of chapter one, the entire cargo of babbling idiots, also known as modern artists, started making various animal noises. Fortunately, the truck stopped in front of an auto body repair shop, and unloaded its cargo of babbling idiots, also known as modern artists.

The babbling idiots, also known as modern artists, proceded into the convention hall, which was across the street from the auto body repair shop. Bob was amazed at these wonderful creations. There was a table where cassettes, compact disks, and eight-track tapes could be purchased. These cassettes, compact disks, and eight-track tapes had recordings of a janitor screaming "I think you should invest in mutual funds!" Bob couldn't help but purchase an eight-track.

At another table, there were paper bags filled with broken glass that had been strapped to the roof rack of a modified Yugo and driven through a car wash. Bob knocked the table over, since it was obvious to him that this was a low art form. Just then, he bumped into his old college friend, Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus, who became a physisist. Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus's car had spontaneously disappered. He couldn't figure out why. He had parked his car in a deserted alley in Baltimore, left the key in the ignition, and left the doors unlocked. When he left the car, he noticed a friendly crowd of teenagers with ski masks on who were excessively tattooed and were carrying illegal fire arms. The convention center was nearby, so that's why Bob found Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus there.

"Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus! I haven't seen you since college!"

"Who are you talking to?" asked Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus, for the real Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus was two tables over.

"Oh!" said Bob, and later found the real Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus, two tables over.

Since such a long last name is quite cumbersome, I will refer to Juanito Foracappisimoendopipalotisrusrusrus as "Juanito" from now on.

"Hi, Bob," said Juanito.

"Hi, Juanito," said Bob. "What are you doing these days?"

"I'm studying anamolies in the space-time continuum. I think that the disappearance of my car might be explained by studying these anamolies."

"Well, Junanito, you want distubances in the space-time continuum? This morning I put jelly on my toast, and (accidentally) dropped it, and it landed JELLY SIDE UP!" said Bob.

"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... That is interesting, Bob."

"So, how long does it take to drink an ocean?" asked Bob.

"Bob, what the heck are you talking about!?!?" screamed Juanito.

"Oh, sorry. I talk to myself sometimes."

"Anyway, I think that your jellied toast problem has to do with a reverse in gravitational polarity, combined with the extreme adhesion and cohesion of jellies." said Juanito.

"I don't quite get it, but how does that help you?" asked Bob.

"Well, if we reduce the adhesion of jelly, perhaps by using a lubricant, then we can keep the toast from landing jelly side up." Juanito suggested.

"And how does that help you?" asked Bob.

"When the toast drops, the jelly falls off because of lack of cohesion, so the toast lands with no jelly on it. If there is no jelly on it, it can't land jelly side up!"

"Thank you for helping me solve that problem," said Bob.

"You're quite welcome!" Juanito replied.

"Just one thing. Won't the jelly land on the ceiling?"

"Oh. I guess that we have to re-reverse the gravitational polarity of the jelly, huh?"

"But how do we do that?" asked Bob.

"Well, this is a story right?" Juanito asked rhetorically.

"Yes."

"So it has to have a problem, or a messed up author."

"Yes."

"And since the author is writing our lines, he would have left out the messed up part in my last line."

"Yes."

"So, by the law of ruling out possibilities, this story must have a problem, correct?"

"I guess so," said Bob who was tired of saying "Yes."

"And it would be logical to asssume that the problem in this story is to reverse the polarity of the jelly, correct?"

"O," said Bob. However, Juanito thought that Bob said "Oh." Bob actually was thinking about the fifteenth letter of the alphabet at that moment.

Just then, an earthquake caused the tectonic plate that the convention center was sitting on to split in half. Bob and Juanito gazed into the fault line when a big small average-sized cat by the name of Fettucini (accidentally) pushed them into...

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