Yet Another Pristine Account.

 

The people I normally travel with made sure to plead with my supervisor that I not be allowed to pick up anything either near an immoderately scanned motorway or in the bowels of a moribund Achievement Center. And by 'pick up' they refer to my rather notorious behaviour with a trite selection of comely young lovelies. This has all been documented in previously unearthed tomes when no one thought to pay attention to such effluvia.

You've got to understand, as the host of my own show, it falls on me to police my underlings in the only way I know how, by shoving them HARD into and through a very special doorway. I felt trammeled in the extreme, so I sat down, turned on the sprinkler system outside, got in touch with my brother Phil Carter, walked over to the Community Pool, ran into Commissioner Howard, took a nap, did some errands, had it out with my nemesis and trained my sights on the Grand Prize which will be awarded sometime later this Spring.

Once I got used to prowling the grounds of a sprawling compound on those evenings when I wasn't being directly implicated in the erection of a third-rate balance-shield, I felt free to liberally apply a forbidden lineament to the mid-forearm area where experts have told me it would have the most effect. Somehow, I couldn't not look up when a harried professional slithered by, humming my ex-wife's favorite song from the film of the same name. Unfortunately, though, the name of the tune didn't come into focus in time to prevent a major blot from sullying my already overly bloated record of insouciance in the face of officious diktats. Your last surviving Monitor should be so lucky.

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