Mickey Slipped

It was one of those out-of-the-blue ticklish times, akin to being plooped roughly atop a faux-Muppet-seque Skin area rug and, in a poor man's Frank Oz, demanding to be called Sweetums while dribbling copious amounts of forehead sweat across the flushed nape of a Driving School Instructor in Swine headgear. Images of a fleet of poorly driven Le Cars sputtering and weaving through a dimly lit and mildy dampened tunnel strobe through your head; as do the imagined WHISH-WHISHING sounds of hurled Lew Zealand-Weaponized Fish pinwheeling past your goggled mind's eyes--eyes of a googley nature, black dots on white spheres, clearly disconnected from any optic nerves, ricocheting hither and non within plasticine orbs.

What was in that Malted?