In the grand scheme of things, a trifle,
but don't make me reach for my rifle --
"That's what you call the dead?
Please see a doctor for your afflicted head --"
You know damn well that's not what I meant;
neither of us can check what's heaven sent.
Funnels, cakes of ice are surely frightening,
but when one is struck by lightening,
'tis not an electrified action
but merely a step towards Michael Jackson.
Thus, I beg, AP, hire some competence
and end this flood of disturbing malfeasance.
"That was horrible."
Truly, but not as offensive as finding irrefutable evidence of a creature once thought to be a figment of a whiskey-and-weed sodden imagination: the Track-Suited Elder!
"I'm seventy years young, punk!"
A coworker was regaling me this morning with tales of these inhuman monsters and their faux testosterone-fueled lifestyle, a midlife crisis that keeps on eating and regurgitating itself far beyond impulse sports car purchasing and judicious applications of Just For Men, settling at last in Golden Buckeye Card perpetuity.
Lo, believed her I did not, but soon that pound of doubt was smashed into a tasteless pancake when such a creature managed to create an obscene amount of jamming in our hydraulic Raw Power Stapler® that even a six year-old can operate without too much effort, but MAXIMUM ZONE BUSTING AND PUSHING THE ENVELOPE IS WHAT I LIVE FOR BLEAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH! FLEX FLEX FLEX I READ FIFTY-SEVEN PERIODICALS AT ONCE GET OFF MY LAWN
So, with the timely aide of a hammer, I was able to unjam about 17 staples from the chamber. Je vous remercie, unholy combination of Chuck Norris, Jack Lalane and Matlock, you are a douchebag.
"Look what you did to my stapler when you pushed too hard on my stapler and you jammed it because it's not a Swingline it's my stapler look what you did to it my stapler."