I would like for the epigraph on my tombstone to read: He was not one of the waddle-gated, bursiform techno addicts that roamed the urban canyons of the 21st century twittering one another with sausage fingers the slurs and infra dig about the latest scandal, but rather a simple fellow who remembered the power of "Hello".
The late Friday afternoon hours passed with a prolix tedium, like molasses, while the scuttlebutt around the watercooler focused on the anticipated cakewalk victory of the home team with an esurience bordering on lust.
The selfconscious, nay diffident manner of the company executive in delivering his speech to stockholders, full of empty, bromidic prattle instead of haptic tangible data was all a clever ruse to avoid that the truth be winkled out revealing his unconscionable malfeasance.
The nescient raccoon continued its search for anything to eat totally unaware that the chatelaine was on the Juliet balcony of her ornate rococo chateau with the double barrel Browning at her eye, ready to end his search.
Chastened by rumors about his fussy manner of consuming his favorite avian speciality, ortolan bunting, the persnickety parson decided to abdicate and forswear eating these tasty treats to forestall proliferation and spreading of these negative commentaries lest they do further damage to his snobbish selfimage.
From his rooftop perch the tainted, flyblown weathercock was still keeping a beady eye on the bodies of the sybarites below, macerated by years of fad dieting, practicing their heliolatry under the scorching sun while their skins slowly turned from rosy pink to bright red.
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