He wrapped her head in syran wrap. The chains

He wrapped her head in syran wrap. The chains kept her legs and arms to the bed. He watched her eyes. When they started to droop, he opened a mouth hole. He resuscitated her. She

writhed beneath the weight of the cold iron, straining them as the sweat blistered to the surface. For the third time that night, he murdered and brought her back, but evidently,

the stress was too much on her fragile DNA system. She bubbled a bit, then gargled, then began oozing dime-sized Oreos. "I'm sorry," she whispered, as her plump body morphed into a

prostrate position. "Could you pass me that tub of Lotrimin? I'm feeling yeastier than a bakery." Fighting off a gag reflex and ignoring the smell of fresh baked Crescent rolls, I

lathered up with antiyeasty cream but it was too late. My netherregions emitted the distinct smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls and donuts. This attracted a squadcar of fat

cat reality show producers who wanted to exploit my condition on their new show: Yeastmaster. In order to get on you had to bake with yeast growing

on the catskills of Catmandu or Kilimanjaro. Either way, the hike up the mountain was extreme, what with uneven terrain that keeps going up then slopes away. Other perils include

some cascading barrels and wayward balls of fire. I dug in deeper with my mountaineer's mallet. We were in persuit of the abominable ape known in Tibet as 'Don Kay Kahng.'

"Your leadership skills suck" was what I was thinking. "Can I help you up Mr President?" was all I could say.