The cat then returned to his mortal body. He awoke slowly and with a fading daze. He again picked up the glass of whiskey that sat beside him and again looked at the picture of them together. He smiled, raised his glass and said “Here’s to number eight.”, and once again pulled the trigger.

The snake then bit the sloth, which returned him to the infinite innocence of oblivion. (The snake then fucked his wife.)

If I found myself laid out on a blanket that was the same color and texture of my own hide, I’d be a little worried about it’s origins.

Not aliens, bourbon barrels. Bourbon barrels outnumber people in this part of the world.

Yep.