Milk shakes bring all the boys to the yard, who tear up the grass, leaving muddy puddles, that I then track onto the rug, causing my wife to be angry, and I sleep on the couch, which puts a crock in my neck, making me unproductive at work the next day, causing me to get fired, leaving me penniless, which means I must subsist on twinkies and soda pop, bought with food stamps, at the 7-11, annoying the patron behind me, erupting into a bitter argument, ending with police taking me handcuffed to jail, where I wait to stand trial, before a judge, who asks me if I have a defense, and I say, "food caused my issues."