"There you are" I say, dropping the small

"There you are" I say, dropping the small parcel into his greedy, cherubic, little hand. "Three cherry cordials belonging to Marie Antoinette herself...you may want to open that in

SLAP! He hit me with his greedy little cherubic hand. "Button it up pop, just give me the gift, my diapers are riding something fierce." Ah, my son. If only I had

some lanolin baby wipes, but I - SLAP! PUNCH! "Use your shirt, dammit!" my chubby son squalled, then promptly peed on me when the cold air came in contact with his little bottom.

As we stood there, a procession of crazed drifters insinuated their way into the fray. A cataclysmic nightmare unfolded around us. Soon all the air fit to breathe had vanished into

The front page of the NYT. It was merged with the so called news. This was almost three years after the first fold of this wonderful story. Imagine that! Sir Rupert Murdoch was

about to get his 30 shekels for selling Earth out to the alien invaders. Any profit is a profit. Sir Murdoch planned on being there to witness the death of the next to last human.

But the alien wrinkled its 9 meter nose at Sir Murdoch's cash. "I'm sorry, sir," it said wearily, "but we do not recognize this crap. We can only end the human race for dollops."

The human race is going to end. Goodbye.

The hologram message fizzed out as the Death star powered up.Humanity clung to each other in those last few moments,as a bright green light speared towards Earth. BOOM, End credits