We were invited, why are you throwing US out?

Z and I are back in Moosetaint county, slinging corndogs to the throngs of tourists at the 7th Annual Slosh-a-Palooza Beer Festival and Expecting Mother Doilie Blow out (down at the exhibition barn). The beer is rockin' and the new moms are crocheting their prego hearts out. Oh, I always say CROTCH-etting in my head. Good times, and good business. Drunks and hormone-crazed fuck-trophy carriers go apeshit at our stand. Z had a brainstorm and dumped pickle juice into the cotton candy machine. I swear it's like crack to the ladies.

Then we get a call from the bar, some incoherent shrieking about Jimmy and nudity. I gotsta check this out!

Arriving in a blue cloud of Pinto smoke and ICP rapping about juggalos Z and I look at each other. We can hear Jimmy ranting from the parking lot. Z exclaims "I knew I shoulda worn my fighting heels, not this damn open-toed set!"

What the fuck? Focus! We hauled-ass inside and there was Jimmy. He's Axle-dancing on the bar, throwing chunks of turkey-bologna at 3 baying hounds, swinging a mop at anyone who gets close to him. Butt nekkid. That can't be hygienic. His eyes are all pupils, and yelling something about Prairie Elves, the Sacrament and skunks. He spots Zanna, and immediately gets off the table. She has a calming effect in the melting mind of the fried. It's all those years of making our fryer her bitch, methinks.

He raises the mop like a mighty saber of the righteous (god, that tree did a number on his junk) and grandly proclaims "I am the Voice of Reason, bring a round of mead to my friends, and all shall become clear as you hear my story, good folk"

Yeah, they threw us the fuck out.