The men with the forks told me they were going to demolish my house. "It's about tine," I exclaimed. I watched them work. One of them had a polished brass monkey on his head. I stroked it, and it bit me. This, I knew, was a bad omen. I acted quickly, beating the men to death with my wicked thoughts. Seizing the forks, I went in search of a meal. It was a shame about the house, I thought, but serendipity can't be argued with.

There were three forks, so I decided to hunt for a three-fork sloth. All the sloths were on vacation that day, however. Fortune struck again when I hit upon the fabulous notion of prying my brain out of my head and eating that. I sat down on a conveniently placed turtle and got to work.

It was chewier than I had hoped, and this stirred a great longing within me. I had not felt this urge since my days as an anteater. Practically exploding with good cheer, I went to the rodent crematorium to display my wares. I attribute the unappreciativeness of my audience to their cinderlike state, but the critics were impressed.

I was invited to several talk shows after that, where I was permitted to show slides depicting my large intestine being abducted by aliens. The audiences frequently assaulted me after the show and foisted hefty muffins and other assorted munitions upon me. I hope someday that my story leads to world peace, but I would settle for a small bistro near an airport.