I placed my order at one of the finest restruants

I placed my order at one of the finest restruants in France. I turned to my friend, impressed with my French skills. "What did you say?" He asked. Just then, police sirens wailed.

"Vere is ze food, mesuire café man?" The French owner stroked his moustache, and then shaved it off! He didn't like the pattern of the hairs, but most of all he had a urgent

call from someone who said they had a limited time offer. The French owner smoked. Then he smoked. Then he smoked. Then he ate a piece of cheese. Then he grabbed the phone

and called the smokes' company. He demanded more smokes. Then he turned off the phone. Then he cut himself. Then the Smoke Seller came to the Franch Owner's house. Then they smoked

and smoked. Then they struck up a deal. Then the Franch Owner made a lot of money. Then he went to Vegas. The Smoke Seller met him there. Then they waited for the perfect

storm to appear over the desert horizon, then sit in their Vegas penthouse and toke on on the Smoke Seller's wares, watching the dust swirl and eating the Franch Owner's baguettes.

Carbohydrates, tobacco, and a city that reveled in every vice known to man. This was the life. Down on the casino floor the Smokers were in a scuffle with the Franchers. Sin City's

Robored light district was in full swing, the punters doing there best to ignore the occasional BZZZT as a sex droid would malfunction and send a hollering man's genitals screech-

coming. "I fail to see why you led us to the bawdy house area, R2," whined C-3PO:"Huh? To get WHAT stick out of my ass? Oh my, that she-bot DOES stir my oils. You need to leave, R2

, now! If you don't you are going to find out what kind of protocols my roiling oil can lead me to." R2D2 beeped and buzzed him a question. "I don't know. I am wondering myself."