The Mayonaise Chronicles




By: Oirighig




A million miniature machinations moving
toward the mounting maelstrom of the
malformed that mean so much too so
many.
Most manage to move with the
mourning mass, yet miss the main
meaning of mom, man, and mayonaise.





Mark ye masters, make haste, many is the
manor of the more malicious men. They mask
their minds behind a make-up of a million
matted colors. Moment to moment, down to
the minute minute. Masticulating on fresh
bones of moles. They sit in Mohogany
Mansions atop massive Mountains made of
mica. Like magnates of misfortune. They
mangle the minds and mien of the meager
and meek, no mercy give they. Most certainly
they will meet their makers upon the mount.
And there they will melt.



The Mayonaise Chronicles


Mocasin wearing misers mitigate with the more malicious men while
manipulating massive masks in their maroon mahogany mansions upon the
mount. They moan over moderate manslaughter in the misinterpreted
manuals of the mist. Meanwhile the
multiple microscopic multifaceted microchips of mayonaise
molded to make a masterful mandible machine meant to march
on Missouri and maim it for the majority of the million man-
hours in the modern month has managed to move the masses
towards the mind of martial manor. Thereof creating the mighty
neigh godly “Army of the Spoiled Mayonaise”. As the masses
move towards the maroon mahogany mansion upon the mount
with its massive maroon masts flying maroon flags with the
letters “MMM” upon them; they manufacture maniacle muave
maxillary ‘mechs of maximum mayhem and
mutilation. These are to be used upon the more malicious men.
In their maroon mahogany mansion upon the mount the misers
and the more malicious men mitigate no longer, for now is the
time for them to mass. Their multiple microscopic multifaceted
microchips of mayonaise molded to make a masterful mandible
machine meant to march on Missouri and maim it for the
majority of the million man-hours in the modern month have
been destroyed by the maniacle muave maxillary ‘mechs of
maximum mayhem and mutilation built by the mighty neigh
godly “Army of the Spoiled Mayonaise”. Even now the Army
and its ‘mechs advance upon the maroon mahogany mansion
upon the mount wherein the misers and the more malicious
men mass to manufacture more multiple microscopic
multifaceted microchips of mayonaise molded to make a
masterful mandible machine meant to march on Missouri and
maim it for the majority of the million man-hours in the modern
month. As the mighty neigh godly “Army of the Spoiled
Mayonaise” moans with masculine rage upon the mountain
opposite the mount where upon the misers and the more
malicious men dwell in their maroon mahogany mansions, a
single monumental man whose mouth is adorned by a massive
mustache mottled with mustard hair, rides forth on a mustang,
he wears armor made of a mosaic of mice. This is “the man of
mustard hair” who moved the masses towards the mind of
martial manor. Thereof creating the mighty neigh godly “Army
of the Spoiled Mayonaise”. Under his guidance they have
melded, and from the muck and musk of missouri’s motley
myriad of molatove cocktale throwing men, mute and morose
from years of monotonous mortality under the muffling
ministration of the more malicious men in their maroon
mahogany mansions atop massive mountains made of mica; a
new type of man mobilizes towards the mount using their
maniacle muave maxillary ‘mechs of maximum mayhem and
mutilation built by the mighty, neigh godly, “Army of the Spoiled
Mayonaise”. Now atop the mount the men and their ‘mechs
wait for their leader “the man of mustard hair” to make the move
that will end the beginning. Through their maroon gates in their
maroon mahogany mansions the misers and the more
malicious men march into the fields upon the mount. They are
armed with new multiple microscopic multifaceted microchips of
mayonaise molded to make a masterful mandible machine
meant to march on Missouri and maim it for the majority of the
million man-hours in the modern month. Yet before they can
descend to the mesa below the mighty, neigh godly, “Army of
the Spoiled Mayonaise”. moves forward by the move of “the
man of mustard hair”’s hand; they surge down the mountain
towards the mount, gaining momentum in their massive
mobilization. As the ‘mechs surge forth, the misers become
mawkish, as they realize that even with the more malicious men
their armies are mediocre when compared to the megatons of
the mighty, neigh godly, “Army of the Spoiled Mayonaise”. Many
months into the age of mayonaise will pass yet men and moms
will still remember the misers and the more malicious men, as
well as of “the man of mustard hair”. For at this time they exist
no longer in the material world, but live on in the music and
make-believe of the people of the mayonaise.
From the misinterpreted manuals of the mist come mystical
maxims of mournful memories of many moons past; marching
over marble mats made by men of motted mustard hair and
maroon flesh; who mimic the movements of the mayonaise
within the mount.

Mom made Man; and he made Mayonaise.

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