Every time he helped her, his stomach started

Every time he helped her, his stomach started to hurt. It wasn't that he was worried about knowing, but her anxiety over failing was infectious and the constant encouragement wore

gown of taffeta. Constant Encouragement was the name they gave to mannequin they had stolen from JC. Penny. Now they were ready to throw it front of an oncoming car and

calling her "Connie" for short, aiming for the car and the boat it was hauling behind it. A mini-pleasure craft on wheels. Connie was stiff and unyielding as both approached her

quivering flesh. The octagenarian mounted the

best write-in campaign in history, though a more rational person might ask if all those negative ads and rallies we worth it just to become the new Monopoly piece.

Still, it was hard to resist. Each week, his bank account got a little bit bigger, and each week, the email would dutifully arrive, giving "advice" on how to vote. It was democracy

But not as we know it. "Hell no" he thought. "Do I LOOK like I need advice? Or money come to that..." With a drag on the browser and a deft couple of clicks he'd donated the lot

to a donkey sanctuary south of Reading where he'd once been as a child. The memory had haunted him ever since. How dare they make donkeys wear hats with

pygmy hippos in their leafy, muddy enclosure. Yes, they were only small versions of their breed, but they were happy in their mini-existence, however cloistered it may be.