It started in a small town in Wisconsin-

It started in a small town in Wisconsin- the dread Samsa virus, named after patient zero, a dairy farmer who woke one morning to find he was a

the rest of the herd, which grew antennae and pincers. "So much for milking," Sam said and stopped. Mrs Za shrieked at the sight. "Don't scratch your carapace in public!"

"Sorry Ma'am, it was itchy." I continued scratch but it didn't help. I had no choice but to rub my back against her blouse, her buttons really helped. Mrs Za seemed bewildered as

rubbed my back against her frock. Mrs. Za stepped back and I fell over. "Pardon my being forward, but rayon always does the trick with my itchy condition." When she sprayed the

mace in my face, I got it- she wants me out of her personal space. So I thrust my head in her lap, groaning: "My eyes... I'm blind!" and furiously swiveled my neck left and right.

She took the mace and smashed it into my face again. "Ouch," I said. I quickly sprang away from her lap and said "OK OK! You can have your personal space."

That was the last time we spoke. I have plasticene flowers where she once stood and said she could read my mind. I said that was statistically impossible, given the lack of kiosks.

Where would you be able to find a lamb gyro kiosk in this small Mexican city? It just didn't make sense.

Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, in a small kiosk, a lamb was gyrating wildly to brazen music. Around her the rams drank and bleated and stuffed sheep money in her g-string.