In a world with a strange lack of plate garnishes:
parsley extermination has been instigated
by the good folks at fennel, those
champion-types who mainly prefer
to have their competition six feet under.
As children, every person
at the fennel advisory board
was cruelly mocked and made to feel
like nobody gave an ounce of effort
to help them fit in.
So! Long story short,
fennel and parsley don’t exactly get along.
Don’t get me wrong, the actual herbs
hold absolutely no animosity toward one other,
it’s just those shallot capitalists
who make this absurd narrative
even possible in the first place.
What does one type when one has no idea what one should be typing? Also, what kind of work must be made on a normal basis if one is to be considered a writer, or even a basic typist? The answer is likely more rhetorical than actual, but I believe that it exists within a kind of continuum much too subtle for human observation. Now why would I be addressing such a scenario anyway? Seems to be some kind of joke, like this guy just can’t string more than two sentences together without some kind of complaint or existential crisis. And perhaps that’s the point of it; do any of us have the ability to jump into a narrative and string more than two interesting sentences together, keeping in mind that this is right off the bat when the brain still has to get adjusted to some kind of critical thinking for once? I would say the answer to that is a definite probably, which means that we may have an identifiable protagonist without even introducing them to the reader (or at the very least, some kind of character worth tracking in snippets throughout their day). And we would suppose that an audience needs a familiar protagonist in order to soldier on through otherwise incomprehensibly dense prose. But what would make this protagonist compelling? I’d say some kind of scraped knee or questioning of an authority figure would immediately port the audience into the realm of empathy; you really gotta hook them into caring about an amalgam of letters and syntax.
Miranda sold me this veranda one fine Sunday morning, while we were traipsing through the park (minding our own business like it was nobody’s business). She casually broached the subject in between more salient topics–chili mongers and termite hobbyism–as though she hadn’t really been thinking about it that much. Turns out that she’d been waiting in the wings for me to shut up so she could drop her latest deal bombshell on me: a 3/4-size veranda for the price of a small turkey (12 lbs. or less) down at the Froger.
Pancetta salesmen are not too common these days–in contrast to our robust ecosystem of chili mongers–but Miranda and I walked past one that same afternoon just as we happened to be discussing the virtues of veggies. He played it cool like he didn’t hear us, but I know he did (from the twitch in his left eyebrow).
The Squadranary Terpscentral Reality Modification Pak (STeRM Pak for short) does seem to have an ulterior motive, or at least some kind of schnitzelfritz that we could sample while stoogifying the unwashed masses for the purposes of gambling. Though these folks wouldn’t have any personal wherewithal in the investment arena, they always seem to have contact info for a person or seven who could give them great stock tips at any time. The investment inflection point rarely comes to pass, as the stoogified masses–in order to complete their training–must become petrified and stupefied in addition to the already rigorous stoogifying certification process. After a quick observation of the situation and the rubrics contained therein, I may be starting to regret my decision to peel away from the world tiddlywinks championship for such unappealing capitalism.
Rocking around the clock is my commercial mantra (for lack of a better one). It’s got that smarmy hint of entendre without actually going smutty on the reader/recipient of jargon/vernacular–just snarky enough catch on with the younger faux-hipster set, while simultaneously being too naïve for the true hipster set. The thing about hipsters: they are a necessary force for good in this universe, though somewhat impossible to deal with on a regular basis. Even your typical fair-weather hipster will acknowledge this paradox of existence, as they’re (allegedly) happy just to be included in the conversation at all.
There's something concerning a something or other (or maybe some nothing) that's legible enough to the incorrigible spunk-o-trons--something of a conundrum waged against the unwashed masses (though how many masses were ever truly washed in the first place?).
Within the marketplace usually resides a stimplet or a heathen's cross, neither typically reserved by your dollar store general, though the most unorthodox practitioners beg to differ with one another at the water coolers (especially when they're not as fond of Jeopardy as they once were (post-Trebek and all)).
Taking out one's emotional and intellectual aggression may be the only recourse that these folks have at a time like this.
The ritual that "normal" adults traditionally take for granted (the grunting and bellowing and raving to get their animal stirrings out of their systems for the sake of the ol' poke-n-sleep maneuver) is losing its luster.
Jeopardy-inclined individuals with less of a proclivity for such things must feel the constant torment of boundaries established almost solely due to prior intellect, though the subsequent lack of sexually-transmitted maladies is quite desirable (as the quarterly "gal-up" polls would indicate).