From a Mad-lib with a friend
At 2:01 am eastern standard time in the year of their lord and savior Mark Wahlberg, the Capybara tribe of South Copenhagen, who had become conscious of themselves via a dubious war amongst the Swedes, and having invaded under non-usurperous terms—deriving from a meek start aboard a chance South American ship steered awry by the rum drunken bastard sons of Bolivian oligarchs, bachelors all and sailors none, the split toed faction (split from the Northern, Hoofed old guard, nearly gone and thereby gods-to-be) led by Sir Alfred Bridgerton starved the critical supply building of haggis underpinning the entirety of both the Swedish and Denmarkian economies via contraceptive sponge. This to say the capybara attack was one of devious motivation long surpassing the hallowed innocence of their ancestors who never posed a threat to anyone save themselves, as they would soon prove, appropriately enough, un-Abel.
As they’d learned the language and found themselves growing their ranks beneath a stanch Marxist’s meager dwelling in the South, they absorbed the morality of class division (the very reason for their stewing rebellion and its incipient violence), they had accordingly, if quite accidentally –as is always the case with the taste for sugary moralisms– learned the subversive ways of mass persuasion, and had begun distributing anti-Semitic pamphlets—their split toes giving rise to their sacred inheritance as the inscribing class––an exaptation of modernity, itself.
As it was their underground right, in their own minds, to seize the means of production, the messaging was directed toward the wives of the haggis plants’ day laborers. “Sin maiz no paiz” was sadly misunderstood by these creatures, now foreign to their own tongues; but revolutionary talk is revolutionary in any language. As it turned out, the women had decided they’d had enough of the mistreatment of their men ––the men coming home rancid from their day’s work and altogether turning them off, both individually and collectively to the ideas of those certain deeds that might engender procreation. And so, the women, putting their Krona where their mouths were, promised no sons nor daughters, via sponge and of their own volition, as fate would have it. And hereby the men, worrisome for their fraternal fates, relented to their wives, as men do, and commenced a general strike for better olfactory factory conditions: just what Sir Alfred Bridgerton had been planning since he’d seized the sinews of power from his elder split-toed Senior Sergeant, a general by title but untrained in militaristic maneuverings and more meager on account of his melancholy deriving from a recent bout with an exceedingly sultry second wife—a Capy woman with a fetish for pool boys, and worse, hoofed pool boys (bouyancy be damned), and thus, the Secretary come General come victim-to-despot, Peter Cottontail (who was no relation to the rabbit, of course) relinquished his meager throne to that deeply marxist, more serious and seriously large aptronymic rodent. And the general’s game was on.