Now that it’s been almost 94 years, I suppose it’s well past time to tell this story. Almost 94 years ago, I was on my deathbed at the ripe age of seven, with my left hand between my legs for one last tug at my winky. You see, unfortunately, I had spent the past six months or so dying from a degenerative muscle disease. I remember thinking “golly, I sure wish I had another 94 years of life in me,” and then it happened; I realized that my fingers were not grasping my dong, but as it turned out I had been vigorously rubbing a strangely tubular, synthetic object with a small hole in one end. Suddenly, out from this glorious little hole came a man. As this man looked at me, my eyes widened, and my jaw loosened. He was a translucent blue, and appeared to be levitating above my bed. The man turned round to take in his surroundings. As he did so, I got a clear look at his posterior. It was quite thicc. “Boy,” he shrieked gratefully, like the most thankful of banshees, “you have freed me.