Criminee, Mama's at the sewing machine again.

Criminee, Mama's at the sewing machine again. She's gonna make me wear whatever she's making. From the looks of it, I'll soon be sporting some camouflage footie pajamas. The one

invisibility cloak I have is torn, and those camo-footie PJs are the next best thing. I can blend in with the other backpacking, anthropomorphic piles of leaves. The comfort factor

was totally negated by the multivariable dutch oven that was left for me by a twist of fate. But I have incredible wafting technique and so

I made waffles. I drizzled syrup on it and handed it to the judges. I knew this would win me the cup. Only, I didn't hear the gunshot behind me.

Unfortunately, instead of hitting the piece of shit judge that had been staring at me the whole time, my waffles blocked the bullet. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO*gaspOOOOOOOOO!"

*gaspOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO*gaspOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ron rolled his eyes. What were they up to now? Should he call someone? Ever since his new neighbors had moved in last month, his nights had been filled with

bleary eyed staring thu the hole he'd drilled in the cheap velvet Elvis Portrait above the neighbor's mantle. Ron took notes. "May 13, 2015 at 3:02am: Mr. Cravitz puts on latex dog

Costume as part of playing the role of a human puppy. His handler is a tall dude with a writerly beard and long slicked back grey hair. It may be shocking to see Mr. Cravitz do

that to someone's leg and wag his tail when the handler rattles the treat bag. You would too if you were in a similar situation. Just ask Cravitz, when he is back to normal.