It's been said that the blood on my hands is not particularly appetizing, being less related to pigs than to actual intrepid reportership, but then, that's the way things go in the igloo of the minds eye. Like toaster pastry, the invisible wallets flow with porn, but not regular, gratuitous porn, but classic, authentic, tasty porn. Not "porn for porn's sake," nor the work of Porny McPornPorn, the animated mascot pandering, almost literally, to children. This is not their story, but it may not be my own, either.
The dead cow in the bathroom was not my butler, nor did it resemble him in any way. This is primarily because I did not have a butler. Of course, this did not stop the detectives from crying, "It's the butler! The butler did it!" in the vacuous way that they do. How was I to know that they were correct? James Butler came to my house and murdered my cow. He did it angrily, but only with intent to wound, not actually kill. He had no idea that the pie fork he picked up was known as the Spleen Venter, nor did he know that it was a pneumatic Guernsey he was attacking. The results, as they say, were explosive.
Such is the way of murder in the bathroom.