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.
Teflon dependency besmirches our cowardly world, in the case of our battered leaders and showmen outside the realm of wall sconce renovation. Only a handful of things can come of it, like improper money management or the raking of savings bonds through to the edge of the atmosphere–or the ambiance, anyway. When will folks learn that cast iron can be just as dependable, if not infinitely more durable (and handier in close combat, where all real battles are won)? We need our politicians to stand up and admit that there can only be a common solution once bacon and eggs are fried together, unified in grease like our brothers from a shared past, not unlike the patronage found within the standard fruit salad–grapes, kiwis, strawberries, pineapples, two to three melons, the works.
You hear that, g-men? All you clowns need to work together under the umbrella of the common interests of your constituents! But I know your hands are tied, since you have an unbreakable pact with the little gray aliens entailing the siphoning of creativity and ingenuity out of our species through radio waves, satellites, broadband, and god knows what other technology. I’m not supposed to know this, but I have an inkling that they’re harvesting our psychic energy for their own selfish reasons. Makes me sick. Oh well, nothing I can do about it. Carry on, gentlemen.
I really wish I could use my arms.