The sweatshop owner had a point. I couldn't

The sweatshop owner had a point. I couldn't name another country where you could pay a 12 year-old $1/week to
open Wonka bars. The whole contest had gotten out of hand and there was only one thing left to do:
play spin the bottle. They all sat in a circle but they had no bottle, so they chose to improvise with a
sharp kitchen knife. The ensuing bloodbath quickly made them realize that
they should have played with nerf guns instead. Delirious from the bloodloss and sight of maimed corpses, these idiots
turned the guns on their own team! Imagination no more, this was real. Carl, a bi-standard to the whole calamity dropped
to the floor and began crawling backwards toward the doorway. He was just about there when someone noticed him and shot. He
screamed because he absolutely hated having his picture taken. "Why couldn't you let me get to the bathroom, so I could at least comb my hair?" He glowered, as he
dropped his drawers, readying himself to sit on the can. "You never give me the privacy I need to do what I need to do." He tossed me out before
my tail could clear the slamming door. Everyone knows a dog's nose revolves around the sweet aroma of poop. How was I to know he wanted it all to himself. Guess I'll go lay down

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