Bowel cancer is just another way of saying "endless constipation." Jan and I went to the beach only to find naked lesbians who thought we were the Indigo Girls. Unlike them, we were wearing bras. My mother force fed me store brand tacos. She wished she was Molly Ringwald. The male hooker said speaking Latin was a turn-on, so I spoke Greek during the castration. Robin raped Michael Keaton, but no one wanted to know. I buried my head in the sand and scorpions stung my eyeballs. Paramedics were bad at puns. My prothestic arm was made of silverfish bones; it blew away in the wind. My room was haunted, but the ghost only wanted my bowler hat. He jumpd out the window with my sock drawer. I wish he gave me someone to talk to. The end.