When I was a kid we had a tiki. My parents observed a very rare tropical religious cult, after watching a particular Brady Bunch episode. They were kind of obsessed with it. My great grandpa who was one hundred and eleven at the time, was glazed and eaten alive with a pineapple in his mouth to appease some sort of ancient god. He was, I would say, rather tasty. My dad of coarse got the Neck, but he was head of the family. Anyway, one day, my curiosity got the best of me and I touched the Tiki. Just one gentle finger running ever so softly down it’s round little belly. I heard a real horrifying scream up from the bowls of some fantastic beast, and when I turned to look, my grandma cold clocked me right in the face. Blood shot hard from both my nostrils, as I groped for my face. Feeling warm blood pore over my hands. My little brother David who is quite a nice kid actually, jumped on my back and started stabbing me repeatedly with a huge butter knife. When I whirled around in pain to shake off the little monster, my mother sucker punched me in the groin, dropping me like fat bag of butter. I felt a couple of kicks in my face, and when I looked up, my grandma was crushing my head with the heal of her shoe. Anyway a couple of years later I came out of my coma, and found that they had strategically removed and eaten some of my body. My splean my kidney’s and all my veins and half of my heart and…well lets just say that John Wane Bobbit has nothing on me.
I guess the lesson to all of this is you can never really trust your grandmother.
I hope this helps
your pal
R.J.Krandell
