This is a bit of a cottage industry
we’re dealing with here yet,
so I can’t be arsed
to get off my keister
and support this unproven mission statement
without some kind of connection
to the local movers and shakers.
I’ll be blunt. Pudding supplies
have run rather short, I’m afraid.
I’ve simply no use for a companywide pudding shortage–
think of the optics.
We’re sitting at a juncture
crucial to the reckoning
of our very civility as we know it.
If I’m to be contracted for my time,
I must receive the personal assurance
that the pudding supply will be bolstered
at the beginning of each working week–
or I walk.
I’m not doing this to be the unfair guy here.
I’ve seen these pudding shortages happen in the past
[oh, about four or five times, aye].
Don’t you ever find it odd
that the companies with the most influential
leaders and donors are never asking their competitors
for their gamgams’ closely-held secret recipes?
We need to get there, people.
The day of I know not what but I always could figure it anyway if you asked me to, but not if you ask me in a way commensurate with the smiles you’re bound to receive when I let my mother’s antique movie penguin replica collection go into the record books as a swindler’s dream, very never-so-minded and genuinely enraptured by the Germanic trepidation we all seem to face on a daily basis.
Stronger than the average jurisdiction machine, I marvel at the time I shot penguins through dragon school as a favor to my mother, on account of her love for penguin scholarship “what with the range of predicaments exclusive to this underwhelming era that brings us nothing but worry.” Or she would say something in that vicinity, at least.
So today, just like any other day, we spill the courage of the middle class across our collective janitorial musings, content to soak up any modicum of civility that would be offered to us upon completion of a correspondence course (for a nominal charge, of course).