Well, sure as anything, the Wolf come home and set down in the Mr. Winkles pee-pee spot and drank him what he thought was a bottle of Wolfshine. Little did he know but what was actually in that bottle was city water which causes his nutty buddies to shrivel up into his scrotum and disables his sweatutory glands (most folks call these "pours" because sweat pours outta 'em). He was settin' 'round the house wearing the copper tubed underbritches he got to wear on account of he got no other way to regulate his body temperature, lookin' ridiculous as all hell and in a sour mood to boot and I got tired of the sight of him. I tole him to go outside but he can't walk good in them underbritches so I had Hog and Dragline put him on a cart and roll him out in the front yard by my old Grand National which is temporarily up on blocks for the past seven years on account of I sold the wheelers to pay for an investment opportunity I don't care to discuss.
He set out there a good three four hours without incident but then the boy started squeelin' his head off on account of we put him on an ant hill and they were startin' to chaw on his tender shriveled man bits. Now I am not much in the mood to pay that boy no nevermind so I just put some cotton in my ears and leave him to hollerin'. Well, a day or so goes and constable come up to my door sayin' he's devaluatin' property and asked me to move him 'round back. Now at this point, he can't walk at all because of the ant bites so the boys and me loaded him into my Ford Bronco II, which I call She-Beast, and we drove him 'round back. Now he's settin' out there and no problem to nobody but I don't reckon he'll be in any less of a sour mood until we start feedin' him somethin' other than cat leather and dandelion greens.
Your Friend,
McElroy Boyd
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