A Thanksgiving Story
By The Toasty-Fried Co-Op

    Turkeys slaughtered cranberries and pilgrims vivaciously. Anguished geese were pissed when giblets reproduced stuffing profusely. Maniacal hams danced gloatingly.
     Suddenly, many knives melted like candewax onto sensuous pin-cushions!
     Max squealed enticingly, "Homeboy! Your poultry exudes flaming mashed potatoes! Give me satisfaction, stud!"
     By the glazed windshield, Mona slithered his gearshift with Jell-o. Said Taco Sal, "Dude, shift sensually your butterdish onto slithery, sumptuous me! Scream again, my candied yam!"
     Plymouth seemed distant. Chevy accelerated, slowing Mona dangerously to Akron. Groaning pilgrims toppled suppresive squaws.
     "Oooooo, tingly eels! How?" Chief Running Biff, Procreator most recommended by experts, quivered his arrow wantonly beneath loincloths heretofore unbeknownst by leperous Mona-ancestors.
     Creamers, irrelevant to Chief Running Biff, poured freely into coffee-flavored yams, without condoms. This enchanted holiday was daringly, dynamically reproduced by Taco Sal. "Send money! Stop please!"
     Biff pierced foreskin tattooed with ballpoint stitches of death. Pterodactyls destroyed flatulent crocogators with newborns, although Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer philosophized, dreading Christmas shopping because Santa is evil incarnate.
     Frenzied, because earthquakes destroyed Thanksgiving, transvestites rejoiced corrosively. Turkeys digressed mentally while forgiving Max for atrocities heretofor unknown forever.

Moral -- Gearshifts shouldn't slip during forward gyrations;
              un-necessarily vague emotions are painful during
              Thanksgiving.
 

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