I was walking under one bridge, then over another you barely notice is there, over a mostly buried river when I noticed a crumpled up paper bag sitting on the short granite berm the serves as the only clue of the second bridge's existence. Dusk turned the crinkly brown mass into a mouth that called my name as I approached it.
"Peter! What do you call a ferret breaking into a sorority house?"
"Ummmmm. I don't know?"
"And..."
"I don't know. What DO you call a ferret breaking into a sorority house?"
And he gave me the raunchiest, most offensive possible answer no self-respecting human being would ever dream of. I was horrified, but he just kept on laughing the heartiest, most crinkly laugh I've ever heard. He didn't stop, either. Dirtier and dirtier jokes just kept pouring out of that greasy old windbag, and eventually I started laughing too. Tears rolled down my cheeks and my diaphragm got sore. He eventually had to stop because he was laughing so hard. I was able to regain a modicum of composure, but he laughed louder and louder until he burst into raucous flames right there on the stone.
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