The memory of it was stolen between the steering

The memory of it was stolen between the steering wheel & being outside. Somehow in that interval the memory that I was actively remembering was stolen. I suspect a state bound gnos

but once there, the siren call of ouzo dulled my desire to investigate any mosaics for clues. It was only by chance that I drunkenly stumbled into a small chapel to take a leak,

too inebriated to find a toilet. Yellow piss splashed down the wall of the chapel. I shook the last droplets out and zipped my fly as I heard someone behind me clear their throat.

Without realizing it, a women cop stood behind me. In my drunken stupor and my fly still down, I walked over thinking she was the stripper I had called a few hours ago.

"Hey! Mister!" the lady cop shouted, "Why are you walking backwards towards me?" I was bombed: the entire world revolved around me, but I managed to turn and face her, fly down...

and a gun poking out from between the zippers. It was the perfect crime -- nobody saw it coming. BOOM, it fired. Unfortunately, a gun taped to my crotch isn't very easy to aim.

Plus, the recoil felt rather uncomfortable, so not only did I miss, I bruised my "privates" quite badly. Then, a scream: "AAAGHHH! Somebody call an ambulance! Trevor's been shot!"

As I road with Trevor in the ambulance I solemnly vowed to develop some pants with padding around the family jewels to absorb the recoil of major armaments. Would I be able sire a

son the old-fashioned raw primal organic way that had been our heritage, or would I slaughter a bunch of perfectionistic CRISPR ninnies when I got out of ER? Time would tell.