My fat pal Bob and I got stuck behind a chick on a bicycle.
“How many points you think she’s worth?” Bob asks.
“Vehicular homicide is six,” I said.
“No,” said Bob. “Weight Watchers points.”
We pulled alongside the cyclist and I gave her a good look-over.
“Not much fat,” I said. “Thirty or so.”
Bob swerved, and knocked her down.
Helmet saved her, but I finished her off and got her in the trunk.
Bob cooked and ate her.
“Yeah,” said Bob, patting his stomach. “That hit the spot.”
I killed Bob and ate him.
Fifty points, I’d say.