Silverfish

They came in a lowlife caravan bringing their offspring and harlots. We were dining on a low-caliber sundried fried pickle loaf and egg sandwiches smothered with a tangy red hot possum gravy and garnished with tequila-flavored gummy worms.      
   
The silverfish had entered our abode (single-wide) uninvited and were galivanting all over our railroad salvage linoleum floor. Grandpa, who was a fighter pilot in WW2 and credited for shooting down 12 Huns was armed with a blowtorch. There were many silverfish littering the floor belly up, nice and crispy like granny's BBQ chitlins. However, there were new portholes decorating 4908 Kawasaki Ln. The trailer had as many new widows as a 747. Not only that but the town's Humane Society cited us for fishing without a license.    
   
Our septic tank had backed up to the shores of the Gitche Gumee and flooded a few wigwams upsetting a few aborigines. We were in no mood to kowtow to Tonto are whomever. We wanted our shithouse back and a refund from Walmart for selling us a defective Yankee blowtorch without a safety switch or telescopic sight. Grandpa had melted the damn hand-cranked rotisserie which generated enough electricity for a 40-watt bulb. In the process he had burned half of the roller skate arena and two-lane bowling alley down, melting the bowling balls that were on loan from the pawn shop.            
   
I had just applied for and was accepted to Crash Dummy School after a test. I tossed a brick into the air and watched where it landed. I just suffered from a mild concussion. I came from a long line of dummies. My first job was riding off a cliff like that Evel Nievel fool. I fell short 780 feet. I don't fly a Kawasaki anymore. My bumpershoot fail to open and burned up as I fell at 1875mph.    
   
I don't make this crap up. I swear on a stack of Whoopie Goldbergs adult depends.