I contrived fissionably late at Becky's for

I contrived fissionably late at Becky's for her perennial Christmas fiasco. "I love that debacle you're wearing!" she sprayed dejectedly. I began malingering with the other guests.

That's when I smelled it. Someone had let a SBD go. An eye burner. A little fermented,cabbage gas. I kept my face stone still and watched the other guests. Poker faces. I pretended

that I couldn't tell who it was. But I could tell. It was Ant Chango-- my weird aunt who ate nothing but bugs for like, a year. The odor was stifling. I had to leave-- but she was

insistent, I absolutely had to try a slice of her bug roast smothered in cockroach hemolymph. Ant Chango's chitin-ladden breath subdued me. I felt faint. Then a spoon with a squirm

ing mass of just-excreted poison dart frog eggs was thrust into my mouth. MmmmmmSpicy! Rejuvenated, I clasped Ant Chango and spun her around in circles. I felt positively

blissful, and a bit dizzy, but I kept spinning, faster, with spastic enthusiasm. Ant Chango passed out from G-force, and we ascended, her limp body serving as a helicopter blade.

Ant Chango was looking for an uncle. Bee Goode chased her, but she was not interested. The Zeppelin carried ants all over the world and we couldn't vanish fast enough that day.

The only person that could help us was Cardinal Boytango, the crooked ex-priest. He knew Bee Goode and her army of ants well, and knew her weak spots. He devised a plan so

Crazy folks everywhere run with knives and dance freely in their pajamas, symbolic of the last battle where everyone fought at three in the morning with nothing but kitchen cutlery