Phyllis peered inside her brown paper lunch

Phyllis peered inside her brown paper lunch sack, awestruck. Just yesterday evening, she had carefully tucked a bologna and brown mustard sandwich in there.

Now, sitting in the break room at the sausage factory, Phyllis stared down at her sandwich and couldn't understand why the bologna

was missing those little white bits. Thank God for the mustard. The white bits. She had never told anyone the story of that machine.

Nor had she told anyone how Roger Waters had stolen her story of that machine. The machine that had raped her, the machine that had loved her. The machine that was her private

rapy lovey womyn-machine relationship thingy. She'd had a brief fling with Waters just before she went completely womyn only and even then she was experimenting with the machine

*CRASH!* I looked to my right. Standing next to an ostrich-shaped hole in the wall was none other than Secret Agent Michael Scarn. "Endangered? Not for long." He said, whipping out

his penis. Scarn proceeded to fill every dodo at the Bar Mitzvah with his ostrichy lovejuice. That was, until

Crocodile Dundee arrived wielding his rather large phallus shaped bowie knife. "Time for some new boots, mate!" he shouted at Scarn the ostrich as he flipped the knife

deftly across the room pinning the ostrich against the wall. He then fitted the ostrich with a fabulous pair of Doc Martins that really set off its eyes.