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I'm not much for introductions; they generally take time away from the things that matter the most in life. Such as downloading Swedish tentacle porn, spending quality time with the kids that you falsely think are products of your own seed, writing liberal arts essays on how an Internet meme can get you to stab your friend 19 times even though your severe mood disorder is actually to blame... or, enjoying that last drip of Mello Yello when you've finally reached the bottom of the bottle. Ah. You know what I'm talkin' about. Sugar, not that aspartame cancer juice crap.

Y'know, maybe it's time I give up soda. Build a small cabin out in the middle of the woods. Rely on bugs for sustenance, like a real life Beetlejuice. Smoke a little pot, even though I've never done the deed before. Maybe you could come along with me. And we'd start a new life together. ...What do you say? Are we partners now?

No? Well, alright. I expected as much. And I'll also cut you all the shit, and let you in on a little secret: something truly catastrophic happened to me. And I don't mean CATS from the poorly translated Super Nintendo classic Zero Wing, which I tore a new asshole into in a previous review. ... Wait, none of you were following me when I reviewed retro video games. That's a good thing.

I guess it's time to tell you allllll about my story... my loves. My name is Bill. I own an elephant gun. I like to eat spaghetti-os... but not for breakfast. During the wee hours of the morning, when my tummy gets a-grumblin'... I'm a big fan of the double D's. Or at least I used to be. ... Also, I don't mean boobies. I like those at night.

It all started after an 8 AM walk to my favorite local Dunkin Donuts. I had a craving for a couple of iced coffees, and several bagels with cream cheese, for breakfast. Don't judge or anything, but I'm about as fat as Jared Fogle from Subway, before he lost the weight.

I harlem shaked up to the register. I was expecting my favorite cashier, Renaldo Saget-Seinfeld (he has a hyphenated last name), to greet me with service, with a smile. But that wasn't what happened. That wasn't what happened at all.

Instead of a normal, human-based worker... I was greeted with a most creepy, pastay surprise. ... Don't try to guess it, because you'll never get it.

It was a sabre-toothed tiger cat behind the counter register! (Remember what I said about cats earlier?)

Me, I jumped back, shrieked in horror, and walked like an Egyptian. No big deal though, this kinda thing happens to me all the time, 'cause I'm a crazy homeless man who projects his psychological problems into these 'lost episodes', and stuff. In actuality, I'm sure there was nothing wrong with this scene.

A lady came out from the room behind the counter; I presumed she owned the cat. She was wearing a Miami Marlins hat on to the side like a gangsta queen straight out of T-Pain's auto-tune studio (which I always wanted to record my 80s grunge revival songs in), and her name tag read "Miss Elliot Samantha Ducklite".

I forgot why I even walked to the Dunkin Donuts in the first place, so my eyes went wandering for the menu. I caught sight of the sign above the register. It said: "Don't pay? Get a free ride in a police car." Now, part of me really wanted to get that free ride--I'm unemployed and don't go to school, so I was just lookin' for something to do. I wondered if they'd take me to the movies if I asked nicely.

I clenched my elephant gun with my right hand, and something else, in my pants, with my left, Al Bundy style. Ah, but little did I know that there was no such thing as a free ride. Or lunch. Or breakfast...

"What would you like to eat, lil' fishie?", Sami asked with a sick sadistic smile. Given the Marlins hat, I figured she really liked fish, so calling me a fishie was a sign of respect. Cool. Maybe I'd go to a Phish concert with her, one of these days.

I thought things over. I tried coming up with something witty, but I'm not an impromptu kinda guy. It takes me 75 minutes to shower. Part of that probably is due to being fat. I also blame my lengthy, unkempt hobo hair. Keeping the memory of Kurt alive, y'know. I just wish the bugs that follow my stink around had similar punk rock ethics.

So I finally said, "I'd like to be a virgin forever."

Me, being bipolar and a homeless guy with no support group, I laughed and smiled for about six seconds... until I realized what I had said. "NO, NO, NO! I mean: I would like a virgin! I would like to enjoy a virgin! And her sweet, sweet, tasteful bosom! ... Oh, dicks in my ass!"

I don't know why I said any of that, but I'll always regret it.

The sabre-toothed tiger cat didn't appreciate my attempt at humor. She gnashed at me, grinding her teeth in rage (don't ask how I knew her sex) (author's note: she stared straight at me like a dude who's been in prison for years and would settle for Mello Yello over Mountain Dew.)

The beast was unleashed from her cage. I instinctively attempted to be 'an hero' and threw myself in the cat's way. I didn't value my life, so I figured, why not?

Turns out I wasn't what she wanted. Of course. Nobody likes me.

The cat was actually interested in providing top notch customer service... by doing away with all of the slutty chicks who might have theoretically wanted to fuck me. She sunk her fangs into several young women who were just trying to enjoy their double D's. Highly realistic gore flew everywhere as I cried and cried and cried... and took a picture of dead people with my smart phone. ... I'll post it to Instagram later.

Now, I don't know if I mentioned it earlier, but I wasn't wearing underwear. But at this point, I was regretting my decision. I was inspired by an episode of Seinfeld to let it all hang out, but now I realized that a Seinfeld-like twist of irony was playing out on me the way it normally would George, Kramer, Elaine, Jerry, or that one really fat postal worker guy who starred in Space Jam. I kinda felt a kinship with that last guy.

I stared at the gangsta queen, knowing that I was at her mercy. Because I totally forgot I had a gun with me. ... Whoops.

"What would you like for CATS to eat now?", she gnarled, and inquired. She snorted like Porky Pig, or maybe Steve Urkel. I found it kinda hot, honestly.

I paused and thought her inquisition over. If I ran out of the restaurant, I knew the tiger would be sicced on me, and I would face a cannibalistic end (other than that I'm not a tiger, and she's not a human.)

Of course, you've probably noticed that there's a lot of time left in this video... so, I thought of something.

I smiled. I smiled very widely. I smiled some more. My smile was now a full-tooth grin; just like the tiger's. I continued to smile. I figured my face would freeze from all the smiling, but I did not cease my smiling. "A couple of iced coffees and several bagels with cream cheese", I slyly responded. "That should be enough to satisfy the kitty's appetite!", I whispered to myself. Man. Who would ever order all that food at once? Maybe Jared from Subway, before he lost the weight? How did he lose all that  weight, anyway? I bet it was lipo.

I admit it was rude of me not to consider that cream cheese may be bad for a sabre toothed cat's digestive system, but I was thinking rather selfishly at the time. Can you blame me? I mean, shouldn't we be able to sacrifice moral truths in times of personal need? Actually, the public school system taught me that nothing really matters, so fuck who you want and kill, kill, kill like it's real life Call of Duty and your friends' blood is delicious Mello Yello, and you quit drinking Aspartame because you want to be around for your youngest daughter's polygamist wedding, which the state proudly sponsors (thanks, Obama, though Romney would've also approved.) Am I right... or am I right?

Now, instead of feeding CATS, who I said earlier wasn't CATS, but it turned out she actually was named CATS... the friendly Dunkin Donuts CSR actually prepared the coffees and bagels, and had her perform some sort of amazing pet trick and hand them over to me. Wow. If I hadn't lost my AdSense, I could've posted it to YouTube and made millions of dollars. Maybe that one guy who wrote the really good stories for me would come back, even. Hey, guy. Are you listening?

Yeah, I felt like a satisfied customer... until I noticed in horror...

... that there was no cream cheese on the bagels. Nor was there butter. Instead, my bagels were battered with... blood, guts, and tiny pieces of bone!

I got really, really mad. I couldn't take this bullshit anymore! Because I live in Little Havana, I always pack heat and use it when I feel an impulsive need to... when I remember I have it on me. And just then, I did! I shot Ms. Ducklite with my elephant gun. Highly realistic gore flew everywhere again.

Now, this is where the story really begins. Miss Ducklite didn't die, because she was wearing a bulletproof vest. I had to pay for her hospital bills. I earned the money by working at the restaurant in her absence. CATS handled the accounting, which was all the better given that I have no business skills. ... What a talented little pussy. Very flexible.

About 6 months passed, and I was placed in jail. I was fed a steady diet of bread, water, and if my behavior was good, ice cream. The guards liked to laugh at me. "Would you like some highly realistic popped cherries on top of your eyes cream?", they'd cackle. I felt lost. Frightened. Confused. Like a pregnant teenager who was never taught by her mommy and daddy where babies come from (thanks, Obama.)

Now, it's a good thing I live in America. In America, we're considered innocent until we're proven guilty... ehr, or really, likely guilty... and if you can't afford a lawyer, you're given a public defender. Odds are that he or she is getting blowjobs underneath the Attorney General's desk to make up for the inexplicable loneliness of a life of nothing but work and no play, but that's life for ya.

So, I sold my body to pay for my legal fees. I saw a commercial on TV for a service called Freepainreport.com, with which you can check if you are actually in pain or not. My anus was numb from selling myself to inmates-- you know what happens in prison--and I wanted to know if I acquired an STD, so I called their number: 1-877-PAI-NNOW. It turned out that the FreePainReport service had shut down to make way for a Crazy Frog ringtone selling service. I bought the ringtone for "Baby" by Justin Bieber.

My short, MTV-crafted attention span made me forget whatever it was I was up to. Seventeen minutes later... Justin B. informed me that I was getting a phone call (in Florida, they don't confiscate your cell phone if you go to jail.) It was a lawyer who had heard about my plight from my Fox News interview! After filing  some paperwork using the cellblock fax machine, we arranged to have him meet me at the local Starbuck's (I was granted an hour of outside time; again, this is how they do things in Little Havana.)

As for my lawyer... he was a real character. He had a nearly perfect record. He sported spiky hair, and he's known to sweat if his anxiety fetish acts up. Luckily for me, he's known to lie a lot in court, so I could trust him. He told me he would always believe in his client until the end. ... He's gullible as fuck.

My lawyer, Mr. Phoenix Wright, visited me at the detention center. His first question was: "Do you have a few minutes to talk about our Lord and Savior?" I said yes, given I was stranded in fucking JAIL!



"Am I going to be put away for a long time, Mr. Wright?" "I would say the odds are highly realistic.", he responded.

To Be Continued.

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