I was fine. Till the Lutefisk. I saw it, and then I went totally berserk. I demanded to know who could possibly be so cruel as to place that obscene jar of, . . . fish crud . . .in the fridge next to the turkey. The nasty stuff had permeated the turkey and dressing with its vile odour. No one would confess, so I obliterated them all. Got out my trusty smythe & oil of wesson, and fried them. It was not pretty. Now I'm locked up in this place they call Kansas. It's so flat, there's no escape. Wheat and sunflower fields in all directions. If you get past them, there's the hideous prairies planted with winter wheat, just waiting for spring. I'm doomed to a life of plainness.