Turgid Stoat didn't really enjoy his days

Turgid Stoat didn't really enjoy his days off from protecting Wolverina Puckeridge, although of course he made a pretense of it for her sake. He wandered aimlessly through

the moor, following his charge through bog after endless bog. "Blasted heath" he muttered under his breath, extricating his left hind leg from a sucking morass of slime. "When I

get my hands on that Nahum, I'm getting out of Connecticut like they got the color out of space." He found he could use the golf club as a paddle through the bogs, and his shirt

(his pink Lacoste shirt), he heisted up on a stick like a sail to help push himself through the thick Connecticut bog. Bare-chested now, he felt like a manly man. Nahum was his mot

t's applesauce, the sweet appetizer for the ultimate PBJ prize that was the Hartford J.Crew outlet. This Connecticut bog was his veggies, a mild but necessary inconvenience. Torso

's taste best when dunked in buttermilk ranch," said the Cannibal. The Cannibal had come to Connecticut on a student visa.

The Cannibal set to teaching the locals of Connecticut how to add long pig to New England cuisine. All while doing his PhD and volunteering at a homeless shelter. What a great guy.

The Cannibal claimed his Uncle raised free range long pigs out west which he provided to the New England Seafood restaurants when local fishery stocks plummeted. Noone asked questi

ons after six angry restaurant patrons were found boiled to death, plated on beds of parsley w/lemon & butter, and partially consumed. But cannibals are bamboozling hornswogglers.

I'd sworn that I'd never take on another cannibal as a sous chef after the previous incident but I'm too good-hearted and see where it leads me? I'll never get a Michelin star now.