April 17, 2011

Jim Fan Elliott cursed himself for perhaps the millionth time since the day forty years earlier when he had made the mistake of his life. Now on his deathbed in the creaky no good room he rented in an otherwise abandoned slut of a building, he moaned a final time at his folly. On his bedside cardboard box, he left his only possession, a never ending roll of toilet paper.

The fateful night forty years earlier unfolded as follows. Jim Fan, well in his cups, staggered down a dimly lit aisle in a grocery store in Fort Collins, Colorado. A groaning one-armed behemoth stretched a paw at him and said in a piteous manner, “Help?” Jim Fan was able to focus enough to see the deeply embedded thorn. Since he made a habit of having needle-nosed pliers on his person at all times, it was with the greatest of ease, drunk as he was, that he extracted the thorn. The grateful behemoth spilled words of thanks, “Words of thanks I haven’t enough of. However, I can grant you a single wish. Would you have untold wealth, told wealth, a diamond car, immortality?” Jim Fan smirked. He snickered. “How about an unending roll of toilet paper?” he joshed. SLAMBILLICKEE he stood alone in the dim aisle with a roll of toilet paper in his hand. And it accompanied him all through his life’s journey and never ran out.

Moral: Never josh in response to a wish offer.

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