I've Got The Fever: For The Flavor Of Some Beaver

“BIRD DICK!” Parker just liked the way the words sounded. He kept yelling it out his apartment window for everyone to enjoy. Pretty soon everyone was yelling “BIRD DICK!”
Before too long, the whole city had caught “BIRD DICK” fever. The words were everywhere. One fuk even had it tattooed above his wiener. His girlfriend laughed every time she chewed it.
Parker cursed himself after a while. Why didn’t he trademark the slogan or saying or whatever it was? Actually, he was so sick of hearing the fuking words that he had to move to a different city. But as luck would have it, his legacy followed him. When he got to the new city everyone there was already yelling “BIRD DICK” out their windows, in their cars, into their telephones. The mayor of this city even took it upon himself to have the words carved into the nearest mountain. On a clear day you could see “BIRD DICK” in six hundred foot letters accented with a fine layer of alpine snow.
Parker figured that the trend had to wear off, so he shut himself in his new room and listened to Gregorian Queefs while he sacraficed mice and squirrels in his mini guillotine. This didn’t last too long because the Gregorian monks started to add “BIRD DICK” into their varts. And to top it off, even the mice squeaked “BIRD DICK” before their heads were chopped off.
Parker decided that it was time to end his suffering. He bought a bunch of sleeping pills and downed the whole bottle. It worked. He could feel nothing. He mind was empty. It was all over.
A shaft of yellow light pulled him up into the afterworld. He stood in line to check in. The hobgoblin in front of him turned around to introduce himself.
“Hello, my name is BIRD DICK!”

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