"God no, don't, you'll kill yourself," my

"God no, don't, you'll kill yourself," my bawling wife implored as she pulled at my robe sleeve. I batted her arms away. "Stand aside, woman! I am going to submit 100 folds today

if it's the last thing I do!" My wife was suddenly silent. Too silent. I looked up from my folding obsession. There she stood, nekkid & with a slingshot in one hand. "Dammit, woman

!Put some clothes on! I can't concentrate with you standing there like that." A red hot steel ball imbedded right over my left eye. Blood was everywhere! Staggering, I folded anoth

er 180 characters. Neither nudity, the blood dripping from my eye, nor common sense would stop me, and I finished my fold in less than 4 minutes. Then I pushed my life alert button

but my fold hadn't been accepted! I had to copy & try again. Blood blinded me and I could only sense the paramedics wrestling my mouse from my hand as they strapped me onto the str

ing cheese web they used instead of stretchers thanks to budget cuts. Drowning in dairy, I grasped air feebly with my hands. "My fold," I croaked as they rushed me to the hospital

to find a princess whose cheesy kiss could restore me. My fold was sent to the ICU where its bloatedness from too many puns and irritable vowel syndrome was treated. The bill

Clinton "painted" dress fetched a pretty penny. This money was used to outsource my fold writing to Sri Lanka. I had an entire village writing folds under my name.

Don't you be bamboozled. Today it is I the real MoraEnd who is writing for your entertainment my rahti ho. I will be writing more amusements than my Uncle Vikram has

rows of teeth, and he once won an oral tug of war with Jaws' retainer. Crazy Uncle Vikram. 'Course, nowadays, he don't got a face, but he can whistle in harmony with himself now.