Fried for Breakfast

The crumpled up purple shirt in the bathroom looks like that thing I fried for breakfast this morning but couldn’t eat.

I lifted my back sideways but all I got was a shotgun blast to the fart.  I fart-died quickly and loudly.

You know, when my dad told me he was proud of me and my sister, his eyes dipped downwards quickly in the middle of his sentence.  I used to think he had weak eyes.

I couldn’t eat what I cooked for breakfast this morning, because my two fish looked at it once and said, “It’s too shiny; it will give you swine-flu for sure.”

I took another drag from my E-cig and I said, “Sure, fish.  Shore.”

God died a long time ago, but I still have fun.

“Anyone wanna go to the Barcade?  I once performed in drag there when it was a bone broth Wendy’s! Ha ha ha.”

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