A voluptuously vivacious vixen is jogging with her pet Golden Laboratory Retriever along the beach as if she was the Road Runner being chased by Wiley Coyote. Which explains why when she runs through a dark, poorly lit, abandoned train tunnel; the other joggers (bedecked in Acme labeled cross trainers) following behind her suddenly change directions. They are probably worrying that they will smack into a painted cliff wall then get up, turn around facing the other direction and as they walk away, will then be shockingly ran over by a train exiting the painted tunnel portal.
Parades populated preponderantly by pedestrians are all mindlessly staring at her hugely humongous, jiggling jugs jostle as this smoking hot honey dip struts pass them in fawning adulation the same way a stoner stares at a lava lamp because she's so hot that she makes Victoria Secret models look the waiting room at Operation Smile.
She is a natural born model. In her sonogram, she's striking a sexy provocative pose. She is so hot that her school photos were always the yearbook centerfold. I'm not saying she is a life sized Barbie but if you look under her left foot, you will see a birth mark spelling the word "Mattel". Due to her visually awe-inspiring attributes, she's often being watched more than Dancing with the Stars. She's hit on more than Tyson's punching bag after being ripped off by Don King for the 12th consecutive time. And some people even say that she's received barrels of personalized 'Thank You' letters from the CEOs of every hand lotion cream company spanning across Northern America for increasing their company's sales amongst men between the ages of unborn fetuses and rotting corpses.
Suddenly, the fine female fitness-freak's pet Lab jets off into the parking garage of the Hilton Inn as if the dog thought he was George W. Bush and his owner's leash was the responsibilities of being President. The dog stops just out of sight with a vacuous expression, sitting still, motionless, completely statuesque and non-respondent for almost 8 ½ entire minutes. It's safe to assume that the dog still thinks its Bush, thinks the alley is a children's class room, and is pretending to have just been informed of the tragic 9/11 attacks. Remember if we can't laugh at off color jokes about the Twin Towers then the terrorist win…and we will not negotiate with winners; Wait how did this story take such an odd twist? It's now completely off track of the original topic and is simply being offensive just like Glenn Beck. But the only difference is um-um-uh…no, no, never mind-that's exactly like Glenn Beck. But, hey look folks; now let's get back to the story shall we? C'mon, I mean seriously, this story is so ADD that the book mark might end up being a pair of dangling, shiny keys.
"Come back, Spot", whispers the owner in a very quiet decibel equivalent to the noise level of Marcel Marceau playing charades with laryngitis in a library.
The dog ignores her at first.
"Come back, Spot", winces the owner in a less quiet decibel that's higher than a midget playing limbo in the Grand Canyon but is lower than Lurch tip-toeing in stilts on top of the Eifel tower.
The dog ignores her a second time.
"Come back, Spot", shrieks the owner in a not so quiet at all decibel that literally wakes the dead which is surprising considering that the dead body has cotton in its ears and is buried next to a tombstone reading, Ludwig Van Beethoven.
The dog turns, continuing to ignore her for a third time. It's almost as if she doesn't exist, as if she isn't real like: Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, or a movie worth watching starring Pauli Shore.
She becomes apoplectic, cantankerous, and curmudgeonly cranky that her defiant dog disobeys her commands with such ease before blushing as she remembers that her dog's name isn't actually Spot…and not to mention the unfortunately coincidental fact that the dog is self-conscious about a wretchedly hideous mole just under the whiskers hanging from its upper left lip.
She walks up to the dog as its sniffing around an anamorphic silhouette, camouflaged in the shadows by the alley dumpster that is overflowing with garbage that no one will ever want such as: dirty diapers, snot filled Kleenexes, and an autographed copy of Snooki's book "A Shore Thing" in pristine condition.
The disgruntled dog owning dame's phone rings. She jumps, startled, reaching in her pocket, presses the 'call' button, but discovers her phone has no bars and zero service. The ringing continues. She looks around perplexed forging a quizzical expression upon her face as if she's Sarah Palin during an interview, press conference, or anytime other than when she's in the wilderness of Alaska- aiming her custom made laser precision cross haired scope mounted onto a nickel plated high powered assault rifle before shooting a herd of pregnant caribou from a flying helicopter.
Consumed with confusion, the jogger inadvertently glances down at her feet and catches a gander at a ringing cell phone that's clutched in the grip of a lifeless hand protruding out the dumpster. The body is pale, cold, and as dead as a studio audience's reaction at the filming of Jimmy Kimmel Live!