This morning, I called my husband on my way into the office with some startling news:

“I’m a murderer,” I confessed.

“A murderer?  What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, I was driving down the road and heard a knock on the side of the car.  Looking back to see what I’d hit, I saw the car behind me swerve to miss the little squirrel corpse I left tumbling in my wake.”

“You killed a squirrel?  How?”

“Well, I was eating my English muffin.  And I couldn’t see past all those delicious nooks and crannys.  And you know what’s worse?”


“I didn’t stop.  It was a hit and run.”

“You’re a horrible person.”

“I know.”


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