This morning as I was unsuccessfully attempting to nail Grandmother inside of her new birthday coffin, I was interrupted by a knock at the front door. To hide the bloody scratches on my face I pulled a pair of women's silk panties over my head that had holes cut out for my eyes and then answered the door. It was the milkman, which was very odd since I hadn't retained the services of a milkman since 1972. The milkman asked me to provide him with a DNA sample. He said he wanted to send it to the F.B.I's headquarters in Quantico Virginia to prove his theory that I was a serial rapist that had been ravaging the town of Suddsville, Arkansas since 1984. He then handed me a plastic top hat and requested that I masturbate into it. Never one to turn down an opportunity to masturbate, I happily obliged. The milkman thanked me and said that I would soon regret raping all of those professional bowlers. As the milkman sped away in his milk truck, raw, plucked chickens began to rain from the sky, smacking across the pavement as they landed. It was shaping up to be a very strange day.
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