It came to him when he was trussed up in a mailbag in the back of a van apparently leaving the city limits. It must have been his hairstylist. She was the only one he'd told about his boring job at the NSA. He searched his hair and nethers but could not find lockpicks or other tools with which to escape from the mailbag. The van passed a turkey farm, o n the left and soon after a field of beets on the right. He knew just where he was. His smell was acute. Cramps were setting in and the mailbag seemed smaller. He had to find a toilet quick! But of course there were none around. Over there! A mailbox! Dragging the mailbag behind him, he farted all the way over to it and made a, um, delivery. Some night this was turning out to be! I was stuck with a man who just took a dump in a stranger's mailbox and, although I didn't think it would be polite to ask, I think he wiped the smile clean off his sisters face and enjoyed doing sol. As the smell from the mailbox radiated out, it became less apparent how he could get away with it, especially when he knew that the postal delivery person was due any minute. So he lit all the shrubbery surrounding the mailbox on fire, but somehow forgot that the firehouse was across the street He needed to think of a new plan, and quickly. He ran across the street to his neighbor's yard and, with a few hard tugs, ripped their sprinkler out of the lawn. The sprinkler would work - it was an impact sprinkler. He re-engineered the sprinkler to use bullets instead of water, and 'voila!' It would be the perfect weapon! When the zombies came to his yard, they were met with bullet rain. What he hadn't considered was that the sprinkler fired in all directions, so he too ended up looking like Swiss cheese.



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