Bum, dry hump the congress, congress of contrails, a congeries of
congrails
Hiking the contrail into the sunset
Flan contrail, flazing. Flazhing, toy plane carrying contrails far out
to sea in the dusk
Far out to contrails, finger fever

Fan out to the contrails. Leave no square sky unturned. We must search
every layer and atom thoroughly...who knows where they are hiding. They
could be hiding riding on a neutron, and would we ever know? We've got
to find the handful of atoms in the entire atmosphere on which they are
riding, the embryonic storms of the future. We'll plow through creches
with scythes like lunchtime -- from now until the end of the decade,
clear skies ahead!

It's a difficult task, but our psychology machines are up to the
challenge. We must locate and purge each and every stormseed, every
atom that's even thinking about becoming a storm sometime in the
future, and root them out just like the protoneuroses we flush down the
toilet at our plant on a regular basis. Plans are underway to turn
these protoneuroses into some sort of nourishing foodstuff, but at this
point it's just not economical, so like natural gas burnoff flares at
refineries, we must flush the neuroses into the ocean -- it's possible
that we're creating one hell of a lot of dysfunctional fysh, who may
find their way back into the foodchain, with the result that many of
these protoneuroses are traversing the carbon cycle the fourth or fifth
time through...modern technology can help, but we're not so modern we
can eradicate evolution forever. But we're trying, and with your help
we'll succeed!

Far out to the contrails, fingerforever. Cocktails forever among the
contrails. The contrails below, and the cocktails tipped up, down our
gullet baby. The fingers of the contrails tickle the planes anuses.
Contrails, like albino hummingbird tongues, lick the anuses of the planes.