"Rodger me with a halibut!" screamed the

"Rodger me with a halibut!" screamed the headmaster. Head Boy Lionel Throckmorton began caning any and all Prefects within range, while Ms. Carwell, the newly appointed French

array of pastries, baguettes and biscuits. Throwing his Head Boy badge to one side, Lionel went on to further disgrace the name of Throckmorton by drowning in a vat of yeasty broth

and letting loose with a spirited rendition of "Fling Me Around The Barn and Call Me Bertha" with a rousing yodeling finish. Some were less than impressed. Not me. I cheered loudly

brayed, and stamped my hooves to the beat. Bertha was such a dreamboat. Those big lashes & heavy udder, mmmhh. But our love was not meant to be. A donkey & a cow, who ever heard of

such a romance? And would our children have to serve as either symbols for the Democratic Party, or be served as McDonald's hamburgers. "No Bertha, " I told her sadly, "It is not

that simple. We'd have to establish citizenship which is going to be really hard with the current Trump administration flailing about all over the place on what constitutes a citiz

en. But speaking of ipecac, my trained crow brought me a VHS tape of some randomly recorded episodes of Taxi. Closer inspection revealed a rare pre-internet YouTube Poop, focusing

on replacing all of Danny DeVito's lines with audio from The Lorax. No cs188, but still a decent attempt for its time. I rewarded my trained cow by feeding her some hay. Cows like

mine enjoy grazing near tornadoes, and those are the ones you want. I train my cows to jump into funnel clouds. Out of the funnel, and onto your grill. You deserve the best steaks.