What is it about memento mori, that she didn't understand? She was a good ol' dame but came up lame in the fast lane of life, knocking back nachos. Then came the corpse and the fairy in the morgue, that stole her love from Uncle Hurley. Harry is something unique and whacked his thingy off for a bluetail fly in his tackle box, alongside the pinto beans and home fries.

Now cry me a river, as I watched Aunt Harriet rise. A little bit dead, in a state of zombified. Naked as a plate of sopped possum liver. If only Uncle Hurley could see her now, he has the clap and a swollen member. But what's good for the pecker may be good for the mummy. If we could slow her down by the time she gets to Phoenix.