Out of blue door number two in the accounting corridor at the Noble men’s slightly Asian bordello. On the grandest side of Poo-Hio. Strut the daring and moderately influential Corporeal Shin Shines. You could tell right away by the glow upon his fingers, and those stains upon his upper lip folds that he had been working diligently all morning felching away at some poverty stricken peasant's last egg hen, and moulde cow. Alas; the micro-phoned wind-chimes in the Ovatorium chinkled lowest noon. And you know what that means fellows? Time for a gloving and diet soda poppy on the Rock a Billies. In neon socks with matching bow tie our flat haired Corporeal pulls rank on his fellow CRAP's (Counting Rats At Pews) and puts himself in a finer position for a proper mulching. Pulling his new teeth from the front of his digital vest. He squats down and grazes in hopes to not see the approach of the glove when it arrived. Life was always more livelier when one was surprised. That's why when the glove never came? He knew his time was near, and he punched out, and kicked stones all the way home to the Beaver Damn Towers. The crib of his Drats and Dillmommas. But they had all been informed of his shunning by the Glove, and had taken it upon themselves to beat one another to death with Motown 8 tracks. The scene was too much for our hero, So he went into the closet to vacuum forever after ever, and then some. In the closet the skeletons piped away at their Church Brass. Shin Shines whistled along with them, depressed, and fidgeting with something in his pocket. 'Twas his class ring. A huge god-awful contraption of gold, gems, and memories. Disgusted by the weight of the hulking tribute, he hurled it at the Gay Boynge's choir of ghastlies. To which they femured him a ballad, known in the closet as the "Ballad, of the straighter guy" That's when Shins waived himself over a soft shelled turtle waxing with a back full of edibles and squinties, and he got his fix on, and it fixed nothing, not even his rusted plumbing. Nodding away at a dessert tray some time later, Shins, in a moment of Holy ghost fillings, leapt up upon the sweet wheeled gurney, and confessed to his audience of one, to how he had accidentally forked his mom's toaster, and sent his seed to be warehoused at the Good Guys (an appliance outlet store). Inevitably, forcing the Glove to shake its index finger long and back and forth, in perpetual tsks for eternity at him. To that our hero had an Epiphany! If I fuck my dad it'll all be even... But the lights had dimmed by then, and the elbow girls had shimmied on home. The last American condor took a healthy shit on a cool slit red Yugo out front blowing out one of its front tires, and the magistrate was loud speakering "Closing Time". Shins, did just that, he closed his eyes, and made love to six portions of hard under the tabled gum for the last time in his splinted life, and tired daily dulleries. After busting a gutty nut, he took off his belt and spanked himself plum to death.