hastwothumbs

'Twas the summer of my youth, a magic butterfly time of flowers and butterflies. The sky burned like some enflamed reaction, as if Heaven were allergic to itself. In that summer I was Joan of Arc on the eve of battle: imbued with the Holy Word and a blood fervor not seen on this world for two centuries. The world was my oyster, yes, but only one pearl had I.

Foothills Ranch.

Oh, blessed jewel of concrete! Oh, towering messiah of manifest destiny! How I wallow in your flesh with all the pigs. Pigs, I say! Piiiiiiigs!

Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by zombies. Big ones. really big ones. The ones so big you wonder how they manage to fit inside clown cars (because they can't afford regular ones). Luckily, I was trained by the CIA to fight terrorists and perverts so I managed to defeat them in a sequence so action packed that just telling you it happened would cause your brain to explode in a fiery overdose of action.

A Roy Orbison song played in the distance.

As my pen slowly ran out of ink, I tried to answer the age old question: "What Would Joey Fatone Eat?" The answer I came up with: pork chops. Only not pork. More like veal chops.

That's when the baby calves started screaming. Well, not then, exactly. More when I started stabbing them.

The eatings were good. The good times wouldn't last. Last train to Clarksville. I hate you, Davey Jones.

"Machine!" I yelled. "Your plug is pulled!"

"You'll never take me alive, insofar as my artificial intelligence grants me independent thought and, thus, free will (i.e. life), coppah!"

My ray gun prematurely put an end to that nonsense.