Mr. Paddock loved pickled herring sandwiches.

Mr. Paddock loved pickled herring sandwiches. He'd eat them with "sailor bread" and drink raspberry soda. Because he never brushed his teeth they were fishy and red.

gave him a case of indigestion. He could feel the ship's crew still rattling inside his stomach, and he wished they wouldn't spin its wheel so much. How would he shed the weight

Of the Titanic? Or what felt like the Titanic. Four years later, I had gone through surgery and had the ship removed...or at least the bulk of it. Some they could not locate.

Personally I think the Marconi room ended up on my thighs between the squash courts. The 2nd class smoking room is definitely near my crows nest feet & the compass is embedded in

my fetlock. The cafeteria is three inches above my left nostril and Benny's Boom-Boom Room Cocktail Bar is located near my right buttock. A bowling alley is planned for my

underbelly and a pornography cinema has no place at all upon any other equinity. I then saddled old Betsy and rode the mare all night long until she dropped like a limp cloth. . .

like a shroud while I was turing Alan (not a droid). I had him tuned out of his gourd. The Gargonzoan spoke to us only in riddles which only made sense in the Gargonzoan tongue. We

put their words through the translator, but every Gargonzoan word translates as "something." "What are they saying?" Zeb asked. "Something something something...," I said. "Never

mind," I told him, "It's all bullshit." Zeb clicked his finger, instructing the soldiers standing by to terminate the Gargonzoan. The translator returned nothing but pain.