You Won’t Believe Your Eyes

I’m late . . . very late, for a very important meeting. I ate and ate and ate until I slipped into the forbidden food coma. Believe me you don’t want to be there. I woke up in the middle of Jim’s Family Restaurant with sharpie ink all over my face, and ketchup on my butt. What kind of sick world do we live in!? I thought for sure that I would make a good souvenir, but no . . . I’ve been tossed aside with the expended sugar packets and the dinner napkins. As the last remaining member of the Royal Family, I thought for sure that I’d be the one to take over the family business . . . if you know what I mean . . . I think you do.

Crap . . . that’s not ketchup . . . it’s hot sauce . . . butt I digress (see what I did there). Even though I’m a little bit ticked off about being left behind (I did it again), I’m still able to make jokes. Right now, however, I need to split. I need to found that son of a motherless goat who left me behind instead of taking me home as the souvenir that I know I am. The last thing I remember, before the lighter came out, was some smooth, suave, sophisticated magician saying his famous last words . . . “You Won’t Believe Your Eyes.” Then poof, I wake up with ketchup – scratch that – hot sauce on my butt. I gotta go.