You're a part of the Dingleberry Police. That means you go from apartment to
apartment, checking people for Dingleberries.
Tonight, you're gonna get a call from the Lebowitz
residence. You'll stop by and check on
the husband, but his ass hair will be immaculately shaved.
"I love my wife," he'll tell you, but his wife
will roll her eyes.
"He loves his poolboys," she'll sigh.
Greg Lebowitz will turn bright red.
You'll look at your partner and shrug, and your partner will
laugh back. Then your radios will
crackle:
TEN NINETEEN IN
PROGRESS, REPEAT, TEN NINETEEN IN PROGRESS.
A ten nineteen will be an exceptionally nasty Dingleberry
infestation. You and your partner will
hop on your bikes (the Dingleberry Police are extremely eco-friendly) and bike
to the address your dispatcher will give you.
Then you'll draw your fair trade guns and kick down the door.
A man, an exceptionally fat man, will be sitting in front of
a TV, watching Battlestar Gallactica by himself. He'll turn around and fix you with a look
like will you be my new friends.
You and your partner will unload your guns into him,
riddling his corpulent frame with bullets.
When you're sure he's dead (after the fourth bullet to the head) you'll
write him a ticket and toss it on his body.
It will read:
Too Many
Dingleberries.
Congratulations Dingleberry Police!
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