I stopped outside of the Deli, and standing outside the Deli was a man eating the most tremendous pickle. A pickle the size of four pregnant watermelons, just a huge, monster pickle! He walked up to me, pushed the pickle in my face and started asking me questions. It was about the same time I noticed the pickle in my face, I noticed a cord hanging from the long end of the pickle, and going up his sleeve, down his shirt, into his pants and shoes, out into a briefcase he had near his feet. I knew it wasn't an ordinary pickle. But it was about the same time I noticed the cord hanging out of the pickle that a four-foot cop arrived, with a five-foot gun; a cop that one time must have been about six-foot-three, but was met at the bottom of a mountain by a flying, singing, writing weirdo freak. He walked up and with one tremendous hand, he grabbed the pickle away from the other guy. He threw it a hundred feet, straight up into the air! And while the pickle was halfway between going up and coming down, he took out his gun and put a three-inch bullet hole right through the long end of the pickle. It started coming back down. He stuck out his foot. He caught the pickle on his big toe, and balancing the pickle on his big toe, he reached his huge into his little pocket, pulled out a ten-foot ticket, he borrowed my pen, he wrote it up. Then he rolled it up, and stuffed it in the bullet hole at the middle of the pickle, took the pickle with ticket, and shoved it down my throat.

It was at that very minute that the pickle with the ticket was going down my throat that I knew for sure that I didn't want a pickle.

I don't want a pickle!
Just want to ride on my motorsickle
And I don't want a tickle
'Cause I'd rather ride on my motorsickle

And I don't want to die
Just want to ride on my motorcy ...cle."