His life's mission was to secretly spread

His life's mission was to secretly spread feces. He'd once wiped his ass on a fruit cake. It cut his ass up something fierce, but who could see ass juice and blood on a fruit cake?

It was a pointless gesture because no one, ever, eats a gift fruit cake. He preferred to spread his filth (and how he liked that word, remembering how Mommy had used it) on

mirror-image etch-a-sketch still lifes of tex mex meals. She figured she could market them to a cantina as window ads to finance her crippling decopage addiction. Her scissors

were her prized possesion. However, a freak earthquake went through El Paso, TX, causing her etch-a-sketch art to dissapear. Her only hope for her fix was to place old stamps on

to a piece of coconut matting & send it across the ocean. It would depend on who found it & if they could decipher the stamps. The matting was actually found by

the code was undecipherable.That it was probably an excerpt from an alien text left behind in Roswell.Actually,it was the recipe for his grandmother's apple pie,a secret he would

fight to the death to protect. The pie was legendary in the family, and grandma used it to soothe and placate, mollify and pacify. She even made one to calm us down when

we had nightmares, which, in my family, was quite often. My family had always been plagued with of night terrors, but grandma's pie always fixed everything. Or so I thought, until

we realized that the crusty old dame made her crusts with Crisco, full of dangerously high levels of trans fats. Our arteries hardened with the day terrors of America.