In line with the already disastrous Thanksgiving preparations, Pinky looked up while cooking giblets in the kitchen to see hundreds of mating files on the ceiling. He took out his trusty Joe Max Taylor for Sherriff fly swatter and went on a killing spree. The flies were easy targets on the ceiling, but all the popcorn ceiling stuff rained down on Pinky. (Now he has to sweep again.) Pinky lost count of the murdered at 79--about the time the Buddhist voice starting telling him not to kill. You don't suppose there are flies in the house because there is a baby calf living inside? Pinky thinks not. He instead blames it on the coming apocalypse. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
