My dog ate the laundry.

My dog ate the laundry.

That was Joey's explanation. The teacher looked doubtfully at Joey standing at his desk in his birthdaysuit. The girls were all giggling because he had an inny, not an outy

-ield bumper crop of flaxen seed. What the town girls liked was agrarian prosperity not inny belly buttons. So Joey turned and said,

"Yeeepp, I'ma harvest roundabout 400 acres a turnips next week and then I've got a mind to plant somma them lima beans, yeepp". The town girls were all aflutter. One looked at Joey

with her lazy eye, smiled a gap tooth smile, and he was smitten. “Lurlene?” he said. “ I reckon I might like to do some courtin if you's willin, yeepp. I needta ask yer daddy

unless it has to do with the bomb strapped to his obnoxious gas guzzling hummer limousine. The bomb was attached to the hot tub so some pretty blonde girls may be caught in the

incendiary blast. Unless the hot tub water could diffuse the bomb on his hummer. It could, right? It was hooked up to the radio by mistake, not the speedometer, so he'd find out

which station would be sufficient to keep the bomb from exploding. Smooth Jazz? Classical? Talk radio? The neighbors had to wonder why the hot tub was playing Rush Limbaugh at

such high volume at 4am, but I could've cared less - I was in the Bahamas with the cast of the remake of "Gilligan's Island", and was safely outside the blast radius.