In the high-lo lands, lived a bear named Gregorov. He wore the shortest shorts, with the shortest socks. He liked to fish, with a rod made of pure gold. In these times, fish were greedy and loved to have riches beyond their wildest palpitations, thus meaning Gergorov had a healthy supply of fish.

One day, in the high-lo lands, where the girls are pretty and the boys suffer from spasmodic groin pain, a new fish arrived in the streamline river, that ran through the high-lo lands, thick and rapido juan pablo miguel. He was called Iambic Pentagon in the Lake of Swish Toffee, the place where he had travelled from. His colour was that of the finest artists brown and glistened with a hint of cocoa.

Gregarov saw this fish. He cast out his rod of gold and tried to snag this fish in an ensaring proposition. The fish ignored the golden omlette, that dangled from the thread of pure knicker elastic. You see, Iambic Pentagon suffered from Communism and to him, gold and riches and private success are as evil as the French.

Gregarov, despite his name of pure Bolshevism, was a capitilist at heart and loved the riches of Timbuckmytooth, which he had acquired through corporate take over. And to come across a fishy lip smacker that ignored the gifts of golden flossage was something that his poor brainfugle could not comprehendez.

Gregarov cursed and barked, barked and cursed, moaned and miowed, miowed and moaned, until his short shorts and short socks were nothing more than priliminary fibres, dangling from the tonsils of metamorphic juxtapositional versimilitude.

Iambic Pentagon, however, rallied his other foul smelling fishoids, with promises of bread and water and Vodka (the staple diet of any communistic beanpole Vodka merchant, which Iambic was) and this was enough to bring them under his thumb. You see, fish live on flakes of crap fondue, which are gathered from sacred pet stores, where flea's run amok and chew on your toey anklets. So bread is something amazing and water was already there, which meant that Iambic Pentagon was an authority figure that could keep promises. Apart from the Vodka intoxication, but in the land of 'Englandsavemyqueens', which is where the high-lo lands are, many a drunk will stumbley slip into such streamline rivers, tipping his vodka beveragism into the misty skytrap and it will in turn, rain upon the watery crisp.

So, the fish changed the name of the streamline river (its name, I add, was Dungerstreamoid). The streamline river, Dungerstreamoid, was renamed the Union Running River of Fantastic Manipulations, or the URRFM, for shortened purposes of laziness. Along with this, many other changes were made. Oppression was ripe. The fish lost there colour and any that were caught tasted like the juices of a feminist. Which is a recipe for disgust.

And so, Gregarov had to find a new river. He found one and he fished happily. He had no care for the spread of Vodka fueled revolutions, by fish of the lowest order and he let them contaminate there own river of streamlinear RPG plot.

"So what" were his thoughts of the Iambic Pentagon, "they will soon revert to the old system, as change is something that people snuff at, due to couch infestied loafing."

And it was true. From here, the ritual of "IHSNLUUISW"* grew

* is the shorthand for "I Have Something New, Let Us Use It - So What"