This is a story of a lovely lady. Well not lovely more like good looking in a freakishly tall way. Her name was Joan Of'arnck. Anyway, she stood at the basketball height of 8'11¾" and that's with her hair down. You don't even want me to talk about how tall she was when she went through her "bee hive" hair style phase, let's just say sea gulls had a hard time flying over her at the beach. But other than her sky scraper height, the ridiculous volume of food her stomach could hold, and the fact that she thought capitalism was good but wasn't a capitalist; she was a great catch. Now back to our story. It was a rainy Saturday night and Joan had 16 of her friends over at her house for a party. Now, Joan didn't put on great parties, mostly because she only owned Eric Clapton CD's, but it was beneficial for her. See she rarely went out of her house. Mainly because of her immense height but also because she drank kerosene as her beverage of choice and in turn that would ignite her farts, shooting 5-10' flames from her backside burning anything, or anyone for that matter, in there path. This one time she accidentally lit a small dog on fire and it actually urinated on it's self to put out the fire. It's no lie. I watched it with my own eyes. Craziest thing I had ever seen. Sadly the dog didn't make it but I did go to the funeral. It was a nice service and the dog's burial was quaint. I decided to stay at the grave till everyone left so I could say my last words. I went up to the tomb stone and read the barely legible inscription. It read:
Here lies Lanolin. We loved our fat dog and he loved his fat family. Born: 1952 Died: 2003I think that was a miss print but then again who am I to say that dog wasn't 51 years old. As I was turned around to leave I noticed that Jef Hicks, he was the actually owner of Lanolin, was standing right behind me. He immediately started talking to about how great Lanolin was. Which is how I found out Lanolin was named that because he loved to have lanolin spread on his dog food. Which then is how I found out lanolin was yellow-white fat. Which then explained why the small dog weighed 150lbs and popped and crackled when he was on fire. When Jef finished praising his dog I asked him why he was dressed up in his sergeants uniform. He then told me that he was so depressed about Lanolin's death and that he couldn't rouse himself to do his laundry. His uniform was the only thing he had that was clean. That one sentence moved me so much that I invited him to get a drink with me at a local bar. He agreed and insisted that he pay for all the drinks. I had no problem with this since I wasn't going to stop a grieving man from buying me drinks. Before I knew it Jef was singing show tunes on top of the bar and basically being a general irritant. He was thrown out of the bar shortly after he started singing "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story. I took the initiative and drove him home to make sure he got home safe. The next day I woke up with two hand guns, a shotgun, and a cat in my face. The police read me my rights then hand cuffed me. As they were shuffling me out of bed I asked if I could have one last request. The officers told me that I wasn't being killed just being tried for the murder of Jef Hicks but they obliged any way. So I took a census of the police officers to see if they thought I had committed murder. To my surprise every last officer said that even though they were pretty sure I didn't kill him I was probably going to be found guilty anyway. Well, that didn't scare me because I had faith that the American public would find me not guilty. Boy was I wrong, but I'm getting a head of myself. Were was I, that's right, the trial. I was being defended by a rookie lawyer. That was my first sign things weren't going my way. The second sign was just the fact that I had no saliva in my mouth, none at all. That only happens when something's going to go wrong for me. Like when I went to Spain to run with the bulls. That morning, well actually all day, my mouth was dry and I ended up on the business end of a pair of bullhorns. Anyway I'm getting off track. So because my mouth was dry I knew that the trail wasn't going to go well. After three days of deliberation I finally took the stand. It was weird, the prosecutions lawyer kept trying get me to say that I used to rendezvous with Jef every Saturday at the Hoppin' Leg Bar on the boulevard in Santa Monica and that I would always strike some matches to light my cigarette but only end up burning myself. None of which ever happened. My lawyer, on the other hand, was even weirder than that. He kept asking me if I had taken a statistics class in college and then would ask if that was considered math. I actually got so mad at him that I tried to bum rush him. I didn't get very far considering I was chained to my seat. Well after that, the prosecution only had to show up at the courtroom to get the guilty verdict. And sure enough they got it. I had been tried and found guilty of murder. I was then sentenced to life in prison. Which is where I'm writing this story. Ha, how about that for a plot twist, bet you didn't see that coming. Just to let you know I told my cell mate about my trail and he said that my story was too inconsistent to believe. I think he's right. Oh, well can't win them all, right? And just to let you know Joan's party was a bust and everyone left from boredom after about 10 minutes. Well almost everyone….. one guy stayed. He ended up marrying Joan. There the weirdest couple I've ever seen. She's 8' plus and he's 3'4". I swear they look like Big Foot and Under Dog when there together. Oh, one more thing. If you haven't figured it by now, I didn't murder Jef Hicks. He actually fell down his stairs in a drunken haze and impaled himself a steak knife he was holding.