"1,2,3,F@#$. 5,6,7,F@#$. 9,10,11,F@#$..."This

"1,2,3,F@#$. 5,6,7,F@#$. 9,10,11,F@#$..."This new game her psychiatrist taught her was really working on controlling her temper thou she knew she wasn't suposed to use the F@#$ on

her interview. She held her temper by writting down the word in black charcoal F... 'at-sign'...'hash-tag'...'dollar-sign'. "F@#$"? She was even censoring her own mind. "Oh S&*%..

would you?" He wanted the job badly, but this interview had gone off the rails. Christ, would he what? The seconds elongated into years. He said, "I would...in a box, with a

fox, but first I would be sure I should." The interviewer smirked and said, "Would you, could you, here or there?" He now regretted applying for a job as Romney's personal barista

ballista. Slinging hot coffees at Romney's enemies placated his childish whims, but when important matters were considered, they had nothing in common. This interview would ruin

The chances of his nose and shirt being less stuffed. He eventually became an extrematologist. He studied legs and feet of all species. Legs and feet performed mime extremely well.

Frog legs jumped, while bear legs climbed. Legs were fascinating for him. He couldn't get enough of them. One evening, he was looking at the components of falmingo legs when a

falmingo laid a falmingo egg on his forehead. "Explain THAT to your wife," the falmingo said (rather rudely, he thought). "I was just admiring your legs," he told the falmingo.

When the egg hatched later that night, on his forehead, in bed with his wife, a falmingo-human hybrid that popped out lectured him and his wife on the importance of safe sex.