You want to know what I don't like?

Well, apparently you do, if my fax machine has it right.

O.K., America. You win.

Here's what I don't like.

But first, a story.

Anyway, there I was, one crisp spring early afternoon, minding my own business at local eatery "Taco-Tico" (a regionally-renowned one-stop-shop for every imagineable culinary voyage). As I was savoring the third bite of my Sgt. Slaughter Kid's Meal, I caught something that disturbed me then, and haunts me now.

"A dog?", I queeried to myself at first.

"Perhaps one of those adorable fake ferrets that roll on that ball-thingy? You know what I mean!" (which was odd, as this was an internal dialogue).

"Billy Barty?"

No. It was none of those.

It was rodent that was roughly the size of a Buick LeSabre.

And if that weren't enough, it had emerged from the same general vicinity as my Fun-chalada.

Which brings me back to my original point: I HATE THE ESTATE TAX.

There.

Satisfied, America?