Feeling blue

Oh, dearest Randal, darling of the internets, you ask, why?

Because, electro-populace mostly without faces -- some of you are certainly blank robots and doth protestations will only serve to prove my point -- I had planned on delving into my La-Z Boy Bag O' Tricks® to riff on the death-by-a-thousand-papercuts hell that is the selling by the grain silo of the infamous blue test booklet, whose intricate story was to be carefully plotted out via spellbinding meanderings on multiple cultural artifacts of the Cold War, Project Blue Book, for instance, when a spectral light in my perpetually dark noodle self-illuminated and I remembered that, sigh, I was about to self-plagiarize myself, self.

"Yes?"

Nothing.













Go away tangentially symbolic emblem of retail, for lo, though the opportunity presented in Libraryland (much like Wonderland, only without hookah-smoking caterpillars and lunatic chapeaux) is verily a much diluted version where the customers know exactly what they want because there is no other choice of product available for the wretched task that lay before them, namely, bland scholastic gruel that shall land them a barely-minimum wage job if they're lucky, nor will there be returns and refunds of any sort, but sweet Mephistopheles, the blinding brilliance of the demon of retail lies in its tremendous ability to suck, digest and transmogrify souls from gold into lead so they are too heavy to go postal and sully precious merchandise. Kudos, economic machine greased with the caffeinated blood of the worker, kudos.


















We miss shopping from our couch, Billy. Sniff.