codifier slapped to our newfangled soda-kaon (think Jamaican pronunciation[phonetics{!}]) invention, mun (repeat). It's a preposterous moniker, honestly. Inquisitive sources clasped to my corneas tell me this revolutionary spectacle in imbibery frothed forth from an archived medicinal concoction afflicted by a hundred stabs from adventuresome carbon doctors. Looks like nostalgia clings to some more than most. Change doesn't per-(SE[!]) pester me, but this redevelopment comes without warning. Week and a while I proceed The Coca-Cola Company®'s important ventures, feed support expenditures, recalibrate the revisionist policy of payroll senators, and with no prior warning a design document mars my desk with the executive SLAM! of a boss whose privy fingers lord for premium, singular strokes of its contents.
He told me to redistribute its existence to his peers and wipe any implications of its resuscitation from my mind's vista - pah! Decrees from wrathful god to me - pah! Undeniably - how these forces indulge in the privileges of apotheosis - (pah[!]) Well my eyes don't just skirt the barren soil when those godlings bark their sounds, trample 'round - forever clarity's contributor; they never miss(!). This land's lay is as much mine as theirs, this refraction of purpose as much see-through as solid to my acute sight. We derive our currency in emergency, clutching to a fledgling remnant of past days and bringing it fore-front to the zeitgeist's anvil when nothing else satiates luck's unforgiving, gurgling forge. Yet KO stock sits at 71.37 (+.78/+1.10), and papers in my purview match up.
Something's (a[!])miss.
But focus, focus! My residence, the eternal platform for my mind's meditation, rests far from tangibles, raised above the world's churning suburban graveyards. On those I'll discuss today. Keep up the standards, in a sense (or two?[For you?{!}])
I come home and am greeted by the television, a panoramic plasma: a stage window to what is ultimately imagination's providence (abyssal in silence), encompassed by the bright crimson slouched couch, on all sides coveted by Bose seating. A modern-day Epidaurus, only $16,185(.20[!]) for any classic American family, except this family's child is its occupant and patriarchal loyalty remains front and center.
"To NBC!" he roars, jovial as always, red coat jingling, bells to consumerism locked in ever-jubilant motion.
"To Fox! To Jesus trees! To this box!"
One gelatinous set of quintuplet-fingers swallows 288 cubic feet of oxygen to pet the TV alive like a dog while the other amiably boxes me on the shoulder. I grasp at the sticker imparted by his miraculous palm: "EE-2: Brew". Making out the brand label (k)nitted (o)n his polar-fur jacket shouldn't prove difficult. He grapples with gravity for the remote, wiggling chubby calves mirroring movement from his bloated biceps, and as that terrifying emptiness is devoured by more horrible pixels, he draws me close to whisper:
"Always trust an oracle of Schenectady. Moe? Do you see what it says? Don't think yourself too special for exemption, even as my favorite son. Let destiny harken - you'll deliver."
But the vision fades and he's not there as I partake in the American Way of Life™, the electrical blaze bathing away today's suffering. What's left is minimal. Just me
and the telly.
-Moe Nunbady
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