TENTACLEES: We are here, Hugeness, at the humanoids' home planet of Urf.
PORTLYOID: Urf, eh? Excelloid. Your navigation is unerring as usua - watch out for the hatch!
(Crash and wail)
TENTACLEES (muffled): I have survived, sire, merely a bump on one of my bottoms. (Pants as climbs ladder) As I was squeaking, this collection of boxy whatsits beneath us is the Urflings' ancient Turkish settlement of Stonehenge.
PORTLYOID: Well I'm pharkled. Now squirt it to me one time, Tentaclees my friend - what be upon our shopping list this visit to Urf?
TENTACLEES: A smoother concoction could scarce be found - yeah, not within the sprawly corners of the star-sprinkled whatsit. We have four items. Firstly, a small green box of the Tupperware persuasion.
PORTLYOID: Wherefore wanted?
TENTACLEES: The Great Grubby of Twonker Seven requires said box to deposit his nose within, when partaking of a squelcher with his amazoid.
PORTLYOID: Ah, yes - the loosely secured noses of the Twonker Grubbies - words can but hint at their inconvenience. What next?
TENTACLEES: Fourteen assorted snails, a top radiator hose for a 1954 Chevrolet Delray, and the Pacific Ocean.
PORTLYOID: I am in a crinkly pucker just contemplating the challenge. Wallop me neatly and perhaps persuasively with info on said snails.
TENTACLEES: The inhabitooooonts of Urf look with reverence about the snail spoocies. It has achieved god-like status with the charm of its conversation, its wide toothy grin, and its invention of the hula hoop.
PORTLYOID: I frisk, pirouette and shake my lumpies in anticipation of our newly chums. What of the other two items?
TENTACLEES: Our data banks tell me noisily that vast quantities of the Chevrolet hoses were made, so we should have little trooooble finding one. Perversely, conversely and vexingly, only one Pacific Ocean is known to have been made. How we shall find a single item thus niggles and noggles me from armpit to hump.
PORTLYOID: Well, this be a tangle-twadger and no mistook. Furthermore, I hear tell said Pacific is a squelchy item, with a degree of slosh?
TENTACLEES: Glugging and dribbling can also be expected, sire.
PORTLYOID: Deploy the sponge.
TENTACLEES: It shall be done, sire. But wait - a weeny idea taps upon my brain. I have a scenario for you, thusly. We soak up the Pacific Ocean with our trusty sponge. We fix the hose to the soggy sponge and beneath the hose's bottom end we lay the Tupperware box.
PORTLYOID: And await the trickle? You have thunked goodly but the slowness of the oozings undoes you, my friend.
TENTACLEES: Ah, but sire - I fear you have forgotten the snails. We equip each with their own invention - the mighty hula hoop - and lay at their weeny slippered feet the Pacific-filled sponge, shouting in snail-speak: 'Here be your dancefloor, little ones - gyrate and bounce!
PORTLYOID: And, lo! The Pacific pours from sponge to Tupperware by gift of a Chevy hose. Brulliant! You have thunked massively, Tentaclees old chap, pharkled if you haven't!
TENTACLEES: A mere trifle, sire, I assure you. Anyone of my accomplishments could have come up with it.
PORTLYOID: To work, then! Post haste and - mind the hatch!
TENTACLEES: Aaaaarrrrggggghhhhhhhhhh!
