I took Naaaango to Donny's for a late night cuppa joe and he let it all out, man, told me the whole story of his wacked-out life. Sometimes he was crying and and sometimes he was mad but mostly he seemed just glad to get it all out. As it turns out, Naaaango had quite a story to tell. He was born in the Marquesas Islands, in a beautiful valley, he says. Life there was golden; immaculate. Every goat had his own grass shack, which he could eat iffin he wanted to, but nobody did onnacounta there was plenty of other better things to eat, instead of a guy's OWN HOUSE. He says he never thought anything of the fact that all the goats on the island were red...it was the only thing he knew so it was rilly strange when a gaggle of blue goats landed on the beach one day and started thumping his bretheren and hauling them into their boats. I ran like a bastard up into the hills, says Naaaango, but they found me and thumped me with their thumping mallets and tied me up and put me on the boat...say, Phfrankie....could ya spring for a couple o' McDoubles...I'm frickin' starving over here. Sure, Naaaango, I says, and while I'm at it I'll call Ken. Nooooooooo Phfrankie, Noooooooooo! he says, so then he continued his story...