Even if the approach favored by the less-than-complicit alternative brand managers had a more than slight chance of inducing the succeeding generation of devoted nudniks to part with even a vague portion of their hard won esteem packages in exchange for a two-fisted value proposition from Hell, I still could not begin to countenance the ham-handed tactics I witnessed just the other day while flossing my teeth. There was a (secret) stain proceeding ever so slowly, minute by minute, decade by decade, along the floor of my gazebo. My wife, on the advice of counsel, made contact with a professional person recommended by her ontologist, and, quite frankly, read him the 'riot act'. On this very day it was my turn to 'assume the position' and scope out the possibilities while avoiding the more obvious penalties sure to accrue if I dared to wait even one more day to make adjustments. If I ever thought there would be a day to escape what turned out to be a truly minor situation, this would be it.
I grabbed an oddly colored collection of items, swore an oath to Third Father and made my way (as pathetic as it turned out to be) via chartered motorcoach to a run-down section of a medium sized city in the Northeastern section of the Southern Midwest. There I made contact with representatives of an obscure faction. Their hats marked them as 'marked people', if you know what I mean. If you don't, then please stop complaining; your time will come.
Slowly it dawned on me that this whole thing was just a set-up. And I was a patsy, a rather pasty patsy at that. You see, for the prior three months I had subsisted on nothing but brewers' yeast and kandy korn at the direction of my urologist, Dr. Harflempt Nicosia. You could say I was a willing guinea pig or you could say nothing at all. Your choice. But here's the essential question: why do things move around if I just think about them, without any physical contact? This only happens if my eyes are closed. Is that any help? Just so you know, I'm having an illicit affair with your dentist. Glad I got that off my chest. I can finally breathe again, in more ways than one. If this is a shock, then I have to wonder where you've been for the last seven years and whether sentience is something you've ever made the acquaitanceship of. This is no joke. The End.
This post has been made possible by the gracious cooperation of:
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