There I was... there I was.... there I was...

There I was... there I was.... there I was... in the CONGO!

"Mmhm.." "I could here drums. The natives were restless." "Where they playing Kisangani or Isangani dialect?" "Huh?" "The drum language, you know.." "Oh sure, uh, it was Isangani

absentmindedly slid his hand into the burlap napsack tied around his waist. Inside was the colt 1911 handgun his father had passed down to him. Funny now, that it would be aimed at

His further. Wait Jimmy don't do said Jimmy's father, my name not Jimmy! Said Jimmy. I SAID MY NAMES NOT JIMMY! get it right narrator or later or I will shot you too,

and just for the record,I don't crack corn either." It was the truth. In fact it was that very day that Jimmy's corn cracked. He walked barefoot as usual to the local

Red Cross to donate the blood from his feet stigmata. Nobody had noticed the corn cracking was missing again & Jimmy didn't care & I didn't care. but you did, dear reader, you did.

All in all, it was a pretty depressing sight. There sat Jimmy with bloodstained corn kernels stuck to his legs. He'd wanted to be a dentist, for cryin' out loud! But instead,

he dropped out of college to take care of his dying Mum. Jimmy's job as a male pole dancer for people with fetishes about corn kernels covered in pig's blood left him dead inside.

So he took his tip money out of his g-string and caught the first plane for Tibet. Today you can find him standing naked in a market, covered with white paint and weeping with joy.