if we ate all our friends we'd have less friends because we'd be fat

"Stuff that pig full of cheese and baste it!" they all shouted. But Limmon Stubbs III was my friend and, though he snorted through most nights and had the nauseating scent of scabs, I would not make him the party meal.

Still, their harassment continued inclusive of shovel wielding and hatemongery the likes of which I hadn't seen since my third birthday when I spilled the salad dressing on Aunt Jill's special tunic. Limmon backed into the corner, wheezing, eyes wide as truck stop hookers. I snatched him up and cuddled him as we fell into a heap of fetal-positioned sadsters.

It was then that the miracle happened. The throng encroached like jackrabbits to a bake sale, murderously belching vile invective, armed to the teeth with shredders and the like. My pig and I we huddled and had some gum together and thought about rainbows and the smooth sounds of Enigma. It seemed to be the end when... when...

No, it was the end. He's with Jesus now and I'm full.