"NO! NO! I don't like it! I want to be the

"NO! NO! I don't like it! I want to be the same!" Jeremy struggled against the restraints. "See this syringe, Jeremy? It's full of isotonic saline, and I won't even inject it," sai

It was tomatillo sauce. Dr. Ederstom was turning Jeremy into a giant wet enchilada. But Jeremy thrived on spicy food ever since doing his undergrad in Texas. So the green stuff onl

Y made the situation worse. Things just became more absurd. How much more proof of hypocrisy do we need? As 2017 approaches, this folding story is aging. Line four is critical.

Line 3 gave me my writing orders, but could I trust lines 1 and 2? Would my line only complicate matters, causing derision in lines 5-10? It was all very meta.

Dare I latch onto the word meta by hypothesizing about metastasizing folds? Or would I violate a taboo agaist medical analogy? I decided to plunge ahead by Chaztizing the previous

folder picking apart their folds and their sanity most were far too sane. I promoted madness daily. Soon the world was happily again off kilter. I smiled and relieved myself

in a miniature toilet I kept in my purse for just such occasions. Life was better than good, it was positively kooky. I went for a joy ride in my basketmobile, which I drove up a

hill that turned into a mountain. At the top I slammed on the brakes. My basketmobile came to a screeching halt, right at the edge of a cliff. That was close! I pushed open my door

and peered over the edge. Flames, everywhere flames. Screaming. Suffering. Melting faces, beckoning. It was then I realized my fate. But how did I get here?