Every resident & vacationer in Florida has seen themselves or a family member or a loved one yanked out of their house and thrown into the street like a sack of **** by a 300-mile-per-hour hurricane and then eaten and digested by a gang of vicious alligators.

Are your pans chef-tested? My what? Pans. What does that mean? Hey! Climb down off my ***! No, my pans are not tested by chefs. They are non-chef-tested. What about your spatulas? Yes, a chef came 'round yesterday and beat his boyfriend unconscious with a large spatula. Lovers' quarrel. I see. We offer omelets for 5 bucks, no returns, mustard optional. Are you gay? Not anymore. An ex-lesbian forced me to act like a normal chef for once in my life.

Here, have a creamy bowl of super-hot oatmeal while I remove this rat from a trap. Thanks. Have you lived here long? 6 months. My father used to **** hitch-hikers when I was in the navy. Where's your mother? Dead. Eaten by cannibal Pygmies when I was 27.

Molly was an ex-lesbian who enjoyed long walks on the beach, eating coleslaw with her uncle and drinking from buckets. One day, as she was shaving both legs, there was a knock on the door. It was Dexter, her ex-lover. "Dexter! What do you want?!" Molly asked as the towel slipped from her **** body. "Sorry," she whispered. "That's okay. I see tons of naked ex-lesbians every day!" Dexter exclaimed moments before walking away. "I wonder what he meant by that?" Molly wondered.

Half way through May, again, I anticipate with regularity the June month, as my colon waves in spasms, goose stepping in quick time to June. I should look up old friends, old ****-buddies if I were a homosexual (which I'm not). It seems relaxing to sit when spoken to; to speak from a seat.
   “I assure you,” the waitress said with the tight skirt.
   “That's ****,” I said.
   “What is?” She asked.
   “The word 'assure' because it's got '***' in it,” I said.
   “Even better,” she observed in a tight-*** framing way.
“Titusville, get it? Tight *** Ville?!”
   “Oh yeah. Will you let me measure you against all women?”
   “Sure,” she said. “It's the least that I could do.”
   Panic came upon me like it was 1929.
   “I'd sell everything to be rid of my things.”
   “I hear you,” she said while adjusting her hearing aid.
   “If you'll trust me just once I won't have to
buy a second pregnancy test,” I informed.
   “I will. Besides, in the end, it'll all be
worth it, the ointment – everything.”
   I could see her better because I sat behind her from where
she stood. “I'd **** a million democrats on your say-so,”
said I to get between her ***'s puffy parts.
   “I love you,” she whispered as I gave
her a tip, my tip, just enough to win.    
   “Do you miss me mucho big? Am I not too mucho
macho for you?” I asked very Spanishly.
   “You're **** when you talk wet-back. Are you a wet-back?”
   “No, I'm not a wet-back.”
   “That's good. I don't mind a little grease now and again.”
   “Me too.”
   The temperature was drooping (& dropping) and
I knew that pipes froze at a low temperature.
   “Take off your ****** and let me feed you a taco.”
   “I don't wear underpants.”
   “Me too.”
   That night our waitress/customer relationship
remained whole as I pulled out just enough to win.