I put my fingers in there, then I realized

I put my fingers in there, then I realized that I had done so and withdrew my fingers from that place -- only to find them completely chewed off.

plate tectonics in the past few months. They told me the Earth's crust takes quite some time to move, I told them where they could shove their convoluted theories, right up their

fault line. The senior geologist, Dr. Smoot, unphased tried to explain about how it was due to creeping slip of the grand nonconformity. I told him "Croaking toads don't lie!"

Smoot countered: "No, that's toking Joads are high," as he smacked with with a copy of Grapes of Wrath, "and neither has anything to do with the quakes." The fault line is

giant myth created by the Illuminati to destabilize California's "Hemp Counter Culture." That was Smoot's whole Prime Directive. The Grapes of Wrath novel was just window dressing

for Smoot's opus: The Raisins of Regret. He'd financed Tommy Chong's decades-long foray into the drug culture as a secret double agent and was now poised to bring the whole

apathetic, adulterous, self-indulgent egotistical cycle of chemical abuse down from within. Nobody was above the law. Smoot would save their money, dosing Chong with Regret Raisins

smeared all over the top. He liked raisins, but not as much as he liked playing the trombone. Which brings me to another point, Smoot hadn't seen his trombone in nearly three days.

How does a trombone just get up and walk away? He turned back to the raisins and started counting them out to make them last, one...two...three.