He was going to kill two birds with one Stone.

He was going to kill two birds with one Stone. Sharon Stone.

And Joss Stone. Oliver felt there were too many Stones in Hollywood so he wrote a dangerous movie script for the two as Betty Rubble & Wilma Flintstone. Sharon following her basic

programming courses to completion was a joke. She had the attention span of a walnut. Oliver smoked some keif he had picked up in Tangiers and contemplated means of offing the

one-eyed trouser snake that he'd targeted for separation with extreme prejudice. Maybe there was something stronger in that keif Oliver'd acquired, or maybe he'd always just wanted

to have it out with a tentacle posing as tubesteak

fighting through the turmoil of self-doubt and extended metaphors as the last bacon bit in a vat of green beans only to find

that the person who was eating it had a pork fetish and must fish it out with his fingers, even though it was so hot it blistered, and he just couldn't help himself.

Too cool his hand off he violently thrust it into his anus. "Grrrrrrr..." he purred as he licked his fingers clean, one by one, "Just one more, yes?".

He then casually shoved the same hand into a jar of olives, fished around until he found one, and shoved it into the mouth of a random passerby. The man barely had time to look

at the label of the jar before his head exploded. A rare but fatal olive allergy -what were the chances?! Luckily his insurance fully covered the clean-up costs. And therapy costs.