March 16, 2006
"It happened many years ago," Marsha began. "One day I was walking in the forest near my bathroom when I was approached by a strange old crone who carried with her a magic lamp. She was a horrible, wrinkled thing, bent nearly to the ground, whose craggy face was covered with warts and moles. She walked with the aid of a gnarled wooden stick and cackled when she spoke. Oddly enough, she also carried a number of inflammatory socialist political tracts on reforming the tax system. She asked me if I would like to be a stork. I said yes."