Yet another roadside attraction

The tip of the pen was tapping against my lips. A book on the backside of the bill for three coffees? My lips were turning purple - the color of ideas. The pen was already making love to the paper that was as white as the cirrus clouds wisping slowly overhead.

Stories must write themselves. They should flow like the pheromones of pregnant housewives. They can never be wrenched. And no way was I going to wrench one onto the remaining ten inches of paper. But maybe, if I did not make the g's and the y's as virile, it could be done. What if the entire story was in one sentence? That way, I could ignore the periods. Maybe I could murder a few articles too. I never really liked the self-important a's and the hyped-up the's.

"The deal with women's breasts," began the shaman whose beard had, entangled in them, the leaves from last year's autumn, a wishbone and an unused condom and whose robe consisted of a pig's skin for he, like his master, believed in the commutation of the soul from the here and now to the there and then riding on flying pigs which, incidentally, had been misunderstood and had been convoluted into the phrase - 'If wishes were wings, then pigs would fly' - and whose eyes had no glint or twinkle contrary to popular belief but had a dulled look in them owing to, perhaps, the curious assortment of ferns and mushrooms around him, "is that it is a replacement to their buttocks that had once been the source of arousal for the primeval man who, like his paleontological ancestors, entered from behind her and hence has transferred his attachment with two globules to her mammaries."

No periods. No point.