My pet turtle spoke to me in a British accent and
said that the anus vampires in the grocery store with small penises inadvertently killed Elvis.

I decided to investigate this and put on earmuffs made from prosthetic prostates,
and flew my pony-decorated bed like a magic carpet over the Gulf of Mexico,
soon landing the flying mattress in the parking lot of a coastal grocery store.

Just because I’m a man in bra and panties doesn’t mean I can’t buy food.

I hit the ejection switch on my bed,
which launched me onto the hood of a Smartcar;
behind the wheel was an ejaculating Mickey Mouse.

Mickey drove the car through the glass door of the grocery store,
then howled like a coyote, farted in my general direction, and ran away.

I farted back at him and jumped down from the hood, did cartwheels into the dairy section, and
stole a pair of roller skates from a 10 year old girl that was
involved in a mosh pit consisting of vaseline-coated senior citizens and
the emotionally disturbed Jonas Brother the public isn't aware of.

As I rollerskated around the store,
I saw lots of weird stuff…

A three hundred pound man completely naked except for a football helmet and flip flops
chasing after satanic babies with rabies foaming at the mouth and screaming slam poetry into bullhorns.

Darth Vader jumping out of ice cream freezer.
Doing butt dance.
Dropping dead.

Cross-eyed tarot card readers falling out of invisible handicapped bathrooms;
yanking dentures from the mouths of the moshing senior citizens;
throwing the dentures like boomerangs at people in the 10 items or less isle attempting to smuggle in 11 items;

spandex covered construction workers with nitrous oxide gasmasks and
those menacing looking men in ponchos wearing live alligators as shoes who were giving
nose enlargement procedures to Slovenian supermodels sitting on toilets with wheels;

and an exploding foot Jon and Kate cantaloupe looking like motherfucker laughing
at the mullet-headed zombies in mobility carts and anus vampires in the gardening section
horrifically having sex with homosexual houseplants.

Did you know
the anus vampire are an indigenous tribe with sharp fangs in their rectal cavities
who wear shirts and shoes but not pants or underwear and stalk grocery stores, pin people to the ground,
and use their vampire buttocks to suck the blood outta peoples’ thighs?

(I didn’t know about that either until my pet turtle told me.)

A goat dragging a broken television chained to its hind leg stopped by and said to me in a Southern drawl:
“I frequently make Xerox copies of my genitals and post the copies on trees and telephone poles with a message stating,
‘Lost testicles. If found, please call …’ No one ever calls so I must moon people on city streets
and then go fly-fishing in public swimming pools; I blame this behavior on the fact that my testicles are missing.”

That goat took out its cell phone and limped away chuckling and brandishing an evil grin.

Suddenly,
the ten year old girl whose roller-skates I stole came riding after me on a jackhammer-like pogo stick, shooting death rays from her eyes,
killing anus vampires and vaseline-coated senior citizens.

(And once they were deceased, she performed incantations that sounded like dolphin sounds which raised the dead;
and once reanimated, she cut their hair into mullets and made them watch the goat’s broken television through soft pink sunglasses.)

Upon witnessing this, I lost control of my legs and began Riverdancing through the aisles;

I spotted an industrial strength trampoline and
jumped on it and was shot into outer space where I tried to copulate with an astronaut.

However, I ran out of air and died before I had a chance to orgasm.

I then came crashing back to Earth and landed on top of an outhouse,
which was inhabited by Elvis, yes, he’s still alive,
but not anymore because I killed him when I crashed into the outhouse,
and I never got to completely consummate my relations with the astronaut,
though I’m sure Elvis had sexual intercourses with lots of astronauts
and maybe even a violinist or a lion tamer because he was Elvis and could do things like that.

AND IN MY WILL I WROTE TO MY FAMILY MEMBERS THAT I NEVER LIKED THEIR HAIRCUTS AND HOW THEIR CHOICE IN CLOTHES KINDA OFFENDED ME TOO.

I also told my family members to quit throwing flaming turtle shit at the people in trench coats because it isn’t really a nice thing to do.

Anyone reading this who’s throwing flaming turtle shit at somebody in a trench coat should desist immediately.

Thank.