Chastising champions comes as a natural pastime for the uninitiated rite-mogul-squishers, and it would come as no surprise to those in the clergy (no matter what people may have said about whom or what).
Now, it’s plain as day that you’re looking at me with more than a little bit of apprehension. I’m unsure of what would have prompted this skepticism, other than my various bouts of word vomit from time to time.
Ah, yes, so that would indeed be your reason. Okay, I can work with that. Quickly, now, just go ahead and patronize a chinchilla for a couple minutes while I grab the pre-moistened dentures from George Washington’s exhumed tomb.
Please, can’t you just do me this one favor? I promise that you won’t have to settle for submitting to my acerbic wit for much longer.
No, I’m not sure how much longer. But you of all people should understand that this, like all things, must pass. You’ll just have to take my word on that.
Aw jeez, fine, I’ll patronize this damn critter myself. I swear, you’re getting lazier and lazier by the minute.
Right, right. I know you’re not in the market to be compared to a stooge or a puppet for anyone, least of all myself. But that’s really beside the point right now, wouldn’t you say?
It’s not? Please do explain.
Well, of course I understand that not everything revolves around me. I mean, how narcissistic would I have to be…?
Okay, okay okay. But in my defense, I had a rat for a father and a pig for a mother. Or was it a pig for a father and a rat for a mother? I can never get those details straight. You see, my parents both died before I was born, so I’ve never been able to diagnose my unsatisfied situation.
I suppose you’re right. Let’s just say–if they both died before I was born, I must be one special SOB.
No, I am not lying to you. Everything I’ve said is 100% truthful, and you can quote me on that.
Anyway, let’s get back to brass tacks. Or, at least, aluminum pins. I don’t know what kind of fasteners you people use these days, and I’m not going to bother sweeping up the damn pencil shavings from all the times you’ve decided to update your vernacular just for the hell of it. I’m through with it, I tells ya.
What do you mean the chinchilla escaped?! It can’t have gotten far, let’s split up. You go upstairs, I’ll go around the corner for some tamales.
Tamales are actually all too relevant here, you pensive Polly! Listen, you’re just going to have to trust me again.
I’ll explain when you’re older. Now, do you want red sauce or green?
It has a huge impact, believe me. Every time a sauce choice is plucked from the bowels of obscurity, a quintessential jeopardy magnet gains a friend. That might as well be etched in stone.
Yes, I suppose you’re right. Bowels wouldn’t be the most apropos or salient image when you’re talking about food, but not everything exists to please your restrictive sensibilities, now does it? Just stick with the program here and you’ll be fine.
Exactly! I’m glad you’re starting to see it my way. A cherrywood beacon should have been activated upon completion of chinchilla patronization, but since the furry bugger absconded with our worthwhile afternoon, we have to improvise with a round of tamales. I don’t know how I can make this any clearer for you here. Now please, red or green?
You sure?
Okay, green it is. You poor bastard.
WHARVED 