He finally felt unique. He'd pleaded enough

He finally felt unique. He'd pleaded enough times that his mom gave in and gave him the money. Then he bought an IPOD in "green." Now he was an individual because

there was no other fan of both Seinfeld and the Wu-Tang Clan who also owned a granny smith iPod. He adjusted his black frame spectacles, took a sip of his Pabst Blue Ribbon, and

watched Seinfeld profusely on his granny smith iPod. When he was on the subway, someone stole his iPod, so he ripped off his shirt to reveal a Wu-Tang Clan tattoo. His glasses

fell away, revealing the Mask of Zorro, and even his hairpiece changed color. For the first time in the last twenty minutes, he had found an excuse to change clothes on the Subway

countertop, to the astonishment of the other restaurant patrons. Slipping down from atop the counter, his toes squelching in the tuna, he slashed a quick Z in a loaf of Honey Oat

became the first in a franchise of sandwich shops with the tagline "Your stomach won't know the difference, so just eat it anyway." The food was delicious but looked ghastly.

Within three years joints had opened all over the south west and Joe was looking to expand abroad. "The Germans won't eat dog gut," Frank drawled. "Try France". As luck would have

it, they were the best thing to hit Paris since sliced baguettes. Joe was beside himself and grinning all the way to the bank. What he didn't know was that taxes in France were

about to go through the roof. Public transport would come to grinding halt. It was just what Joe dreaded, a poorly timed strike to spoil all attempts to capitalize on any plans.