Dear Diary, Was watching the SEX olympics (timed squirting event on one screen, timed cumming event on the other, and men’s distance skeeting,) with my pal, pickle horse-man and the local pedophile Slippery Pete, (WHOM I HATE AND DISOWN, not sure if pickle horse-man knows yet) and I’m chowin down on some used maxi-pads when I felt a sudden surging and tearing in my esophagus and a really bad stinging sensation, followed by a lot of horse coughing. So of course my guy pickle horse-man panics and he says we need to go to the vet RIGHT AWAY and I’m like no, dog, no. We can’t miss the olympics. But secretly in my head I’m like, YEAH. THANK GOD HE’S BEING THE SENSIBLE ONE RIGHT NOW. And he’s like, nah, I really think we should go. But I say nah, I’m good, homey. And we sit back and settle down and my breathing is all ragged and I’m thinkin, ah shit, he backed up off it – now if I need a vet I’m going to have to be the one to speak up. And that just is not my style. I don’t volunteer for NOTHIN. Luckily though I start puking up blood and gobs of maxi-pad and we can’t tell if it’s my blood or cLUMps of fucking PUSSY DOO-DOO, so we say a’ight let’s head on down to the VET, and we call ahead cause we got that thing on speed-dial. So we get there and the vet says I shouldn’t be eating them because they’re made of cotton and I’m like, yeah, but cotton is just a modified sugar molecule. And I knew I shouldn’t have tried to get all smart cause then he tells me that I, as a diabetic horse, also shouldn’t be eating sugar. And I know he’s got my ass. And he starts into gunning down a list of shit I shouldn’t be doing that’s bad for my health and I’m verbally agreeing with him, acquiescing on each point but in my head I’m free. In my mind, I’m not about to be caged by this small-minded ideology. I get my stomach pumped and we head out, but the way home becomes strange and we’re immersed in a great fog and night falls and we end up forging our way through mucky fields of brambles and we come across an old man in rags and he approaches us with a frightful tale. He says BE CAREFUL OUT THERE, YOUNG LADS. There are bands of deranged women roaming the countryside, cutting off MEN’S DICKS. They tried to take mine, but I threw myself into these fields of brambles, and cut my OWN dick off and flagged it at them. They went away with much bitter resentment at being defeated in this manner. Yes, yes, they have been marauding these lands for years and will stop and search you for COINS with their TITTIES. I thought I was clever, and once hid my coins up my ASS, but their clever bREAASTS found it all the same. Yes. Yes, indeed. Mm-hmmp.” “Wow,” we said, and shared some ketamine the vet gave us with this strange man who we were pretty sure desperately needed our companionship. The conversation eventually got around to talking about KFC, and someone, I forget who, was insisting that the KFC’s logo is the colonel’s head because 'that’s what they used to sell,' a severed head in a bucket, and that the business model was so successful that concerns over population shortage lead to a quick embargo on the product. KFC maintains to this day that ethically sourced human heads are sustainable and will not lead to population shortages, but during the hearing before congress the company spokesman was unable to respond to Senator Burpy Sanders when he famously asked, “where are the heads coming from?” And it’s true. It’s all absolutely true. Every word of it. I ask you now this same question, dear reader, where are the heads coming from?