I can't remember the moment it came to me...that

I can't remember the moment it came to me...that I would be the last one. It should have been obvious and a conclusion easily derived from the first misstep, but for whatever

reason, I had to learn to live with the fact my job as a convenience store clerk paid less than my last career as a high class prostitute. This economy made my pimp lay me off so a

less experienced call girl could join his employ. I mean really, when have you heard of a pimp laying off one of his hookers? NOW where am I supposed to get my dental benefits?

Gentle Dental? For god sakes, they use cherry-flavored fluoride treatments there! The irony was that I was allergic to cherries. I had found that out the hard way after eating

this hamburger that had fruit cake hamburger buns. The burger joint I go to is run by the Blue Hair Maffia. It's a bunch of creepy old ladies who call themselves the Golden Girls,

probably because of their incontinence. These merry hags are fond of correcting me when I order fries, telling me I should have a side salad instead. The problem with fruit cake is

that its name is often a better description of its digestive terminus. There's no disputing matters of taste, but matters of the lower intestine are a whole 'nother

barnacle. The sea urchin delicately dabbed his facial orifice before devouring the entire head of the richly scented cod. "But what about the sheep's lower intestine?" inquired

the sea horse. "No, no, haggis is a Scottish delicacy. I'm Irish." The sea horse nodded apologetically, and shared his secret stash of malt vinegar hidden in the reef. Surprised,

he wet his bed that night. He then realized that it was all a dream. When he got out of bed he never thought of women the same way. And all weird in the world was gone. The End.