The Murray Affair
I won’t bore you with the series of events that lead up to this, but suffice it to say, it needed to be done. After I smote Murray we rented out his skull as an apartment. It was my wife’s idea. We would build four star condominiums, stuffed with all the latest in luxurious furnishings.
After we got the whole thing up and running, the tenants piled in. A couple from Bangladesh took up in Murray’s nose. He was a loud mouth know-it-all, but his wife was. She used to bake (pastires) that filled Murrays head with the most delightful odors. In our charity we lent out Murray’s eye-lids to a gypsy couple.
Occasionally I would have to clean the birds out of Murrays ears: Blue Jays on the left, Cardinals on the right.
“Stay out of the attic, the attic belongs to the ghost of Murray.” We tell them. “He’s up there playing chess with himself” adds my wife. My wife wants me to charge admission. “Five bucks to sit in the attic for ten minutes and watch whatever it is that Murray happens to be remembering at that moment.” “An extra five if it is X-rated,” she adds.