Hello jello, they tell me your fellow is

nevermind. Sitting "fist" seat in the Orchestra meant he had obligations. The oboe players, the triangle player, the piccolo player would all have their turn moistening their fists

in her own moistness. She wished she had read that contract more closely and questioned what she thought was a typo. Still, she was in show business. Since Bennie Hill went off

on that tangent, he was much less coherent, but most certainly just as dead. It was too bad that her acting contract was tied to Benny Hill's, since she had seen a lot less

Shakespearean acting, which she trained at Julliard for, and lot more running around in a Bikini in fast motion. She had to had the Benny Hill's body. But where?

Well, if Arthur Road connected to Benny Street, she was almost there. So she ran up the hill and grabbed the dead corpse, her uncontrollable desires swiftly taking hold of her.

She looked into the corpses eyes. Her ex-best friend Tabatha's eyes. Her lying, creepy, backstabbing eyes. I didn't do it. I wish I did.

Yeah, you heard me. I would’ve liked to have literally backstabbed backstabbing Tabitha, and backslapped the bastard who did, but I was hiding on the backstreets, a pusillanimous

urchin begging handouts from irritated passerby. I'd give them backhanded compliments, throw my backpack on my back, and think back to the time I got backstage at the Backstreet Bo

ys concert and lost the will to live. It's a tough world we live in. And when you realize you're not tough, Christ IS watching, and you are too late for a real job, welcome shame.