There was a man named Ted. He lived on a

There was a man named Ted. He lived on a little hill in a little cabin in his little town. One day, he was diagnosed with lung cancer, so he decided to live life to to the fullest.

He sprang upon an empty beer can. It was a Pabst. He toyed with the idea of making art out of it. A string of tin blue ribbons, a jagged and shining border intertwined in the fence

highlighting his Professional Bull Rider certificate. It was a Perfectly Beautiful Reward for all his hard work. God but he was thirsty. Parched Beyond Recovery. He needed a

(Story Pause: Oh no. I'm not gonna say it. You can't trick me! I'm gonna say Peanut Butter Rootbeer.) He needed a Peanut Butter Rootbeer. Then he'd wink at Pretty Bosomy Rita &

she'd know what he meant. She'd wink back flirtatiously saunter into the kitchen & make him a bitchin' Peanut Butter Rootbeer float. Rita used chunky peanut butter & let him eat it

and... more beer! I licked Rita's glorious ass, worshipping it as a god. She giggled quietly as I grabbed big handfuls of assflesh, and

moulded them into a passable interpretation of Ayer's Rock or Uluru. I prepared my didgeridoo and breathing circularly, entered Dreamtime worshipping Rita's Uluru Ass. Termites in

my brain skittered around and I quickly realized I was having a stroke. I fell on top of my didgeridoo and wondered if anyone was nearby to help me.

But none did as my consciousness slowly faded as my body vibrated gently to the rhythms of the southern hemisphere.