The Nyquil Made Him Do It
The following is a shocking confession I just received via e-mail from a South Florida journalist. Not surprisingly, he asked that I withhold his name due to the sensitive nature of the correspondence:
As a great admirer of your work, and in light of recent events, I feel a need to unburden my conscience. Perhaps these comments will also serve to correct the record.
Much has been made, in recent days, of my arrest for buggering a number of
chickens, goats and canines. I would like to state, first of all, that these were not animals that had been placed in my care or whose care was entrusted to me. They were runaways, one and all, and (in animal years) most of them were well past adolescence. I encountered them roaming freely on the streets of Little Havana - no attempt was made to lure them from any home or yard.
In a way, this whole process has been very good for me. I have realized, after years of denial, that I am addicted to Nyquil. Were it not for my disease, I never, never, would have let one thing lead toanother with those damn critters. Let me make myself clear: I am soooooo not into bestiality. This was simply a case (or a number of cases) of the sweet sweet syrup leading me to places I never would have gone, otherwise. It's not like I sit around in the middle of the day, when I'm relatively sober, thinking about the delicate caress of a mother hen's tailfeathers. No, it's not until I start hitting the purple sauce that I start hearing that distant melody calling me - the farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell... Anyhoo, I'm off to rehab. Once I get clear of the cold syrup, the animals of Miami-Dade County will have nothing to fear. Because I'm totally not into bestiality. Seriously.