A wonderful, magical animal

No, this post isn't about pork chops, bacon or ham, though the last could and should be considered the catalyst of this ramble for, each morning and evening, Tuesday through Saturday, I pass one particular convenient store of an endless number of convenient stores -- perhaps they will be the HQ of our societal downfall, that or the legalization of the ultimate gateway drug which will eventually create a mellow army of heroin addicts easily controlled but what about the cokeheads for they can get crazy and violent betcha didn't think about that I hope you're happy you filthy hippies -- boldly stating that COOKE HAM is for sale. Not VIRGINIA nor MAPLE nor SMOKED, but COOKE.

Was there a person with the surname of Cooke who, through ancient culinary techniques long lost to us head-in-the-sand moderns enslaved by the microwave and its invisible radioactive mind control rays, created this delicacy? Or, more plausibly, did the D simply fall, like David Bowie, to earth, never to be replaced because the manager of the store is of course a lazy American?

Cooke, in my wandering mind fueled by the morning sky whose oppressive, pallid mixture of cobalt and slate grey, pregnant with rain, inevitably led to Crookes, one William Crookes, inventor of the Crookes tube, an item that failed to defeat The Hideous Evil Elbow® in H.P. Lovecraft's The Shunned House, but something else did and thus a happy family now lives there, free of any horror from beyond. Why? They're crazy and violent cokeheads, and that'll scare the hell out of even cosmic terrors, duh.














The moral of this frightening tale? That we should start selling cocaine at your local convenient store.

Keep watching the skies in your mirrors!