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Oh thank god, there they are! You know, it's easy to lose your emergency lips. You keep thinking, "why did I buy those emergency lips? When will I ever need emergency lips?" but then one day you get in a traffic accident and BOOM, no more lips.

## Contents

$<li class="toclevel-1">[[#The Story Begins|<span class="tocnumber">1</span> <span class="toctext">The Unwilling Exchange</span>]]</li> <li class="toclevel-1">[[#The Story Begins|<span class="tocnumber">2</span> <span class="toctext">A Curious Glance</span>]]</li> <li class="to level[[Media:Example.ogg<gallery widths="310" orientation="square" navigation="true"> SketchOfAfrica.JPG|lip |link=lip SketchOfAfrica.JPG|lip|link=lip </gallery>]]-1">[[#The Story Begins|<span class="toc$Insert non-formatted text herenumber">3</span> A Most Curious Glance]]
• 4 The Wine and Cheese Social of No Return
• 5 Extremely Curious Glances
• 6 A Hand in the Mail

## The Story Begins

You know how hard it is to have to get a lip transplant? It's soooo damn difficult. First, you have to get someone either willing to give up their own lips, or someone with enough lips to share. People with two lips usually have two mouths. I don't trust those people.

I would never take a lip from someone with two mouths. That's just disturbing.

I was without any lips for three years, recovering in that room. The iron lip was always there, humming right next to me. I remember asking my doctor "huw duw tha iwun liw wuk?" He just smiled and patted me on the head. "I don't know. I'm just here committing a felony by impersonating a doctor."

Losing my lips was no laughing matter. Stop laughing! As I was saying, I really missed my emergency lips during those three or four lonely years. Every hour, the iron lip had to be greased and updated with the latest software. Thank you, Dr. Eisensteisenstein, for creating this machine. It may have kept me awake on some of those lonely nights, but at least I had functioning lips.

## I'm turning into a goose, by the by

I also want to thank the goose whose "lips" I "acquired". And thank you for the janitor for that "trip" to the "lake" late Thursday night. You really saved my life, bud. I get a few odd glances now and then with a beak glued to my face, but it'll all be worth it.

When I realized that the beak was radioactive after it was glued to my face, I was in a state of semi-shock. But now, a slow transformation into a goose is making me one of the most feared villains that the city has ever known. I can commit my crimes in absolute secrecy now. You know why?

Because no one suspects a talking goose to commit any crimes. "Oh no," they'll all say, "it must've been a human-like creature!" The fools. My transformation is nearly complete. These useless arms are growing feathers for a quick getaway, and these feet are becoming webbed to leave no footprints. Those jackasses at the hospital won't know what hit 'em when all their precious, barely fucking functional iron lips are stolen. They'll cry and cry, not knowing what to do.

For decades, those damned goose detectives will fail to see the connection between an innocent goose with no priors and the stealing and vandalism of thousands of iron lips. They'll be walking in the park, feeding me -- a man-sized goose -- bits of bread, and never notice that the bottom of the lake is sparkling with thousands of lips. They'll never know my dark secret.

"Where? Where are the iron lips?" they'll say, with their perfect, sparkly, full bodied lips. "They could not have just disappeared?" they'll comment, smacking their perfect, lickalicious lips together in perfect irony.

It was the goose. It was the goose all along.

## Whoops, I'm getting ahead of myself

Well, I lost my lips on I-90, near Farmer McBucket's farm. I didn't see the lipstick truck around the corner as I was shaving and putting my pants on in my Volkswagen Weirdnamedcar. I must've been going pretty fast, because I plowed through the back of that truck.

The doctors said the lipstick overdose would mean I would never have normal lips again. I was crying and crying, "ductah pweathe uh wanth tah thee mah lipth", but all they could do is contain their laughter, and ask if I had any emergency lips.

"mah emahgenthy lipth ith in tha gluth detarthment" I said. When they came back a half hour later, they asked some rude questions about the women's clothing I stashed in there, but said I had no spare lips.

The janitor, who I thought was an upstanding citizen with a friendly maniacal laugh, was nice to me while I was in recovery. Late at night, he would wheel me over to the morgue and let me caress the dead. He showed me some "model lips," but I said that I couldn't take lips from the dead: they knew too much.

He took my gurney to the top of the hill and let me see the geese down by the lake. They looked tranquil, with their full, yellow, beak-like lips. That's when I knew what I had to do.

Oh shit, I wrote this out of order.