Tell me that man's beard is not full of Cheetos

Tell me that man's beard is not full of Cheetos dust.

He has iit submerged in the bag and judging from the crunching noises he's grazing on the last cheetohs at the bottom of the bag. Why is this bearded twit in a Wagnarian opera?

Why is a tough question. Not as tough as How, but almost. How did it start? That's a toughy. His mom would force him to listen to opera while she cleaned house. His sister

dressed him up like Liza Minnelli when they were kids, his next door neighbor used to bring over half eaten deviled eggs on Sundays. It seemed like all the situations added up to

covering the cat with glue and sticking her in the mailbox. The mailman rounded corner as we hid in the bushes. The mail box flag was up and my nervousness was building.

The mailman reached deep into his government-blue slacks, pulled out a bedazzled chihuahua, shoved it into the mailbox, and then ran down the street like a giddy school girl.

"Sir, the pocket dog is right here in your order history. It has been paid for and was shipped to you. If you are unsatisfied with your pocket dog, you can return it for a 15%

reupholstery fee." No time to reply. "On the other hand, you may void your warranty which will result in a fine and termination of the paid product. Warranties may be voided by

frottage or other forms of paraphilia. Use at your own risk." Suddenly, the mattress caught fire of its own accord, and no amount of legal jargon could put it out. It blazed on.