I like children.

The adoption agency was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple ten-thousands. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200.

I like children.

I took my 200 children home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn’t adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall.

Although humourous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the children were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta’ dropped dead. Kinda’ like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap children.

I didn’t know what to do. There were 200 dead kids lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 American Girl Dolls.

I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn’t work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet child and 199 dead, dry children.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead kid in the toilet and I didn’t want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately, there was only enough room for two smaller kids at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn’t all go bad.

I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet child in my toilet, two dead, frozen children in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred children in a pile on my bed. The odour wasn’t improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my bodies and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my more feminine ones. I felt better.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city was not allowed to dispose of charred babies. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn’t take that one either. I didn’t bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn’t know quite what to say. They pretended that they like them, but I could tell they were lying.

Ingrates.

So I punched them in the genitals.

I like children.