Same pub, different story. Both this tawdry tale and “Oliver Fitzgerald: Detective of Love” were written with only the previous line revealed to the writer. Nonsense and hilarity ensued!
I have a deep, dark secret that I’m dying to get off my chest.
I really want to get rid of these damned breast implants.
Getting them full of grape jello was a huge mistake.
When the narc met the drug dealer under the bridge, he opened the suitcases and the shit hit the fan.
Literally, a manure truck had hit a bump on the bridge and tipped over.
The freight train on the tracks below, carrying air conditioners for needy orphanages had no idea what had hit them.
No train can survive getting hit by a buffalo.
Not an orphan survived!
I shed a tear, then continued jauntering on home to my secret lair. On the way, I stopped at the local graveyard to dig some people up. When I pulled Edgar Allen Poe out, he yelled at me “You indignant fuck, I was truly enjoying my time there. Put me back or I’ll haunt your whorish mother.”
Yeah, I know. Right?
So during that last hour of my last hour of my last day, I rang the bell and
vowed to never watch Full House on a full stomach again.