Lionel Richie was running naked down the street.
We saw him while driving to the donut shop. At first, I didn't think it was Lionel. Last time I saw him was grandma's birthday. He was there singing "Dancing on the ceiling." He actually tried dancing on the ceiling but then he fell down and hurt his little head. The police blamed it on gravity. But that's another story.
I had Mike stop the car. Then we both got out. We ran up alongside Lionel, who was running naked through Mrs. Benson's rosebushes. There were thorns embedded in his buttocks.
"Hey," says I. "Why are you running naked?"
"It's National Motown Run Naked Day," Lionel explained. "We're running naked to raise money for the Amsterdam Children's Project."
"Is Diana Ross running naked too?" Mike asks. I don't ask that though. I'm no perv. Instead, I pull out my wallet and say "How much you want?"
Lionel stops running. He stands there, panting. Sweat is pouring off his body. Suddenly, I am ankle deep in Lionel Richie's sweat. I can smell it too. It smelled like banana puree.
"Fifty dollars," Lionel says.
I give him fifty bucks and Lionel starts dancing. "This puts us over the top. Now I can get dressed."
Lionel reaches into his mouth and pulls out a tuxedo, which he puts on.
"Great," says he. "Now we can fly down to Miami."
We get on his private jet and arrive in Miami. Everyone in Miami looks exactly like Lionel Richie. "They had their DNA changed," Lionel says. "Now everyone is me."
We get off the plane and thousands of Lionel Richies attack Mike and I. Mike's head is torn off his torso and blood flies everywhere. "That'll teach you to diss Diana Ross!" they yell.
And it smells of banana puree. I can't stand it. Neither can Lionel.