"CALL THE EXTERMINATOR!" the chef shrieked

"CALL THE EXTERMINATOR!" the chef shrieked at the top of her lungs as she burst out of the pantry.

Arnie the soup-chef came in, wielding his big, tough ladles and massacred the rats in the pantry. Blood and fur spattered everywhere. Head chef was furious. Now it's contaminated!

Arnie shrugged, sneakily pushing the dismembered tail of a rat back into the soup. Fresh ingredients should never be wasted, after all.

But then he noticed a fly floating in the bisque. He called over the waiter which turned out to be a smartly dressed goofy looking guy who was covered in blue fur. The man siad,

"The fly adds protein. It's the only protein we have in these parts. I cannot even get Ill'lshpit - the food I need to keep my coat the most radiant blue it can be."

I salivated and drooled a bit then chomped down on the compound eyes which crunched deliciously as the omatids collapsed into shards in my mandibles.

I also liked Man Dibbles, which included a facination with Ron Dibble's mustasche. Returning to my bowl of bug eyes, i gave some thought to growing my own mustache. A transplant

the possibilities. My 'tache had long been a cause of admiration for men and women alike. No mere slug balancer I, rather a cultivator of the finest fuzzy face furnishing. Waxed,

dyed, and properly maintained, it was the grandest 'stache in the land. That is, until Beatrix said she wouldn't make out with me until I shaved it. The bitch.