That's the thing with Aardvarks... You never

stick their noses in. Four hours after the drunken orgy had devolved into rolling hills and valleys of flesh, the aardvarks invaded, searching for ants in as many holes as they

could penetrate with their flickering tongues. One of the ant-eaters suffered a gouge in its paw when it stepped on the shards of a broken Absolute bottle.

It was Absolute Berry Acai and that enraged the ant-eater. He hated alcoholism and anti-oxidants. He went berserk. He jumped on the counter. His paw went into

the fourth cata of Praying Mantis. I mean, it's a pissed off Ant-Eater. What else would he do? The remaining liquor store debutantes fainted, but I stepped back into Flying Smurf

and ordered the special. It consisted of

Guinea pig tails, a delicacy in

the New Jersey of his childhood, were a comfort he'd have to forgo. There were important things afoot, and little time. He put one of the tails in his pocket for later, and

it popped back out! "What the hell?" he thought as the tail and the foot started to scoot away. I always hate coming to New Jersey, it's so full of

cut rate ceviche. Bad enough that it includes anyhting that was once alive, but to serve it while it is still twitching? And I thought getting whacked was the official state sport.