We wander in darkness as a family.

Each of us governed by duty.

May our father be story.

May our mother be story.

May our stepdad be story.

May we know their words.

The story must be told. The story must be told.

The story must be told.

Hmm. I never had me an aunt who didn't love to slop down in a tub with a bottle of goofy juice and just go to town.

Never had me an uncle who couldn't talk about a lawnmower for long hours until he rushed to the bathroom and grunted for minutes against a crystal cheerio trapped in his aching urethra.

Of course, never knew a nephew he didn't grunt either. And grandmas, oh no, not yet. Gre Grace me a song before we hear something as pretty as that.

Everyone in the family deserves a duty. The daughter, she keeps the records. The son, he skins, the fish. The mother

excreets the family from her womb. The father is the mechanic who greases such fertile cogs and gears.

Even the dog has a duty. You didn't know? He lick, lick, lick. Oh, yes, the dog got spoiled on all the

licking that needed done. He licked the daughter's inks. He cleaned the boy's hands,

slick with fish death. And when the father got working on that humble womb, he was there to clean up too in his canine fashion.

M-mm-mm-lick, lick.

But then, little dog fresh?

Well, oh no, he done got pregnant right in his stomach.

Everyone fessed up said it might be theirs because it was true.

All had loved Lil Dog Fresh in ways the Bible frowned upon.

Then he burped it up.

...