You know, not all folds have to be senseless

You know, not all folds have to be senseless with nothing remotely coherent. I wonder what would happen if the folds made sense and flowed like butter.

Like the warm creamy butter that you spread on a sunny sunday morning toast. But a lot of folding stories are really like a jumbled mess of stale cold lard.

Now my Uncle Helmut, he'd enjoy that on a dark piece of German bread with his morning beer. He'd say "Is good. German beer, yes?" So the more chaotic stories have their connoisse

urship with wacky hijinx, but my German Uncle Helmut was hard headed. He liked puns. Helmut broke his head over puns to mask his boredom with being a butcher.

"Oh, not another pun Dad!". Little Helmut was so tired of falling for his Dad's bad jokes. His friends liked hanging out at his house, laughing and squawking like little geese,

gender-confused little brat. Little Helmut wanted to be Alison Bechdel. He also wanted to still breast-feed, but his mommy wouldn't let him. "You're 8 years old, for crissakes!"

"Mother," said 8-year-old Helmut, "I acknowledge this might be difficult to understand. But I am neither gender-confused nor species-confused. It is your people who have forgotten

our true origins. Were our forefathers not ambiguously sexual? Did my great-grandfather, Atak-Hassan not teach us that 'To love the llama is to love life itself'?" Helmet shook his

helmet out, clearing all the spiders from it, and placed it on his head menacingly. "Take my advice, heathen, or next I shall be taking your life."