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Nonetheless, they seem persistent in achieving eternal gratitude from Earths majority of stupidified humanoids. This year, quite remarkably, they’ve been booked for the greater and lovelier festivals of the lower lands of Holland, which is, ultimately inhabited by a small herd of hard-headed creatures who seem to thrive at the idea of building things on utmost swampy soils. Thus, needless to say, we, the writers are compelled to tell you, the readers, that we wouldn’t be surprised if we will be briefing you in the near future of international success stories, which will be, of course entirely fictional nature.
“A hurdistamp, a swaltiramp, a southing bladder!”, thus stated our officials, limited to an every day walk in the courtyard for five minutes, about the gathering of genres our noble and trustworthy Coco Bongoï seem to mend on an everyday basis in their lovely cottage in the hay. “Frictional Blasphemy!”, chattered a high-worthy officer from the salvation army, who, by al means, wasn’t at all referring to the lovely tunes of our beloved heroes, but was more or less concerned with the welfare of her young nipplecat-hyena dolls at that specific time. When asked to respond to our previous query, the officer replied with: “Coco Bongo and the Yorkshire Hams of Moose? Why yes! I’ve been looking for that particular brand of curtains for ages!” and ran away stating she had a date with a raisin, who was asking for a raising.
Nonetheless and much more on topic than any part of this biography until this far; their fair, enchanting, lovely, soothing melodies leave nothing to the imagination. Whence leaving the listeners to other much more useful occupancies, predominantly that of dancing and hugging the fresh painted fence of your neighbours.
Dear Reader, we must put your heart on a stake here and state the following: Coco Bongo and the Bonfire Ranch of Love is at times so strange in their daily behaviouristic musicality that it can leave nothing than a small grin of self-satisfactory love for life and all that’s supposed to be fun and entirely without meaning since our Great Father of the clouds decided to rest on the seventh day and take a imminently long, still lasting, break.
Marijn Wijbenga 10 ноября 2009 11:18