Another Carnival Hello

Can you get these steaming children off of me? I'm parading my sweaty goods and I'll tell you, there's nothing scientific about it. Actually, I found a totally undiscovered region last week, and I'll tell you this: it's a boy.
Yes, that's right --- for inquiring minds, I tripped upon the expandable flesharrow of unperterbed membranes and it spoke:

'Carnival Hello! Tongues have lacerated themselves on my plot of green bigalow since the beginnings of time! We are sworn by the Mastodon Men to replace our collective wigwams with the lake of meat! Everyone relax --- I have a boobygun.'

After speaking, it's mouth moved to and fro in a friendly masticating gesture suggesting a Georgian greeting. In celebration, we all climbed down off of the statue of Fyodor Yamanishiko, spraying the revoltionary scent on the underside of the pavillion, or bladdern.

I'm not suggesting the Oriental uprising will favour the children, but they're small over here, and we're armed with soap for any crummy backtalk. I say, we're sick to death of the insipid puppets, fleeing with their hairy backsides to the wind! We need more and better relaxants! My electronic dictionary's broken, how can I raise the Byzantine armies?!?

Aha! I have troundled upon the loathsome guts of old world progress --- it's a capsized boat with two of you and three of me. We are a water wheel spinning in dysentry! Cancel my subscription to Carnival Sluts International --- I'm standing in sludge!