jellybeans for breakfast!
WHAT?
(hello sam)
What was the last thing you ate? Well, I’m hesitant to reveal the following details in a public venue, but like I said earlier, my intention upon committing to this project was to be sincere and willing to disclose any and every detail required. That said, the last thing I ate were the delectable, inimitable, and shockingly consistent for a factory processed snack, the illustrious, esteemed and legendary DRAKE’S COFFEE CAKE, which my ever attentive wife keeps well stocked in our establishment to satisfy the nocturnal cravings of the children. Given my druthers, I’d eradicate the little bongdiggly bastards’ presence from the premises entirely, as the mere hint or suggestion that they’re within reaching distance swells such a lust in my loins that my self-control immediately spirals into a tailspin, the magnitude of which forces me to submit to the relentless craving regardless of any dietary restrictions I’m attempting to abide by. Unfortunately, my long suffering wife is assaulted with such a stunning barrage of hysterics from the children on a day to day basis that any and all calming apparatuses, which the Drakes cakes are in spades, must smartly and strategically be kept on hand “around the clock.” The doldrums that descend upon me immediately after consumption are virtually indescribable, but let me assure you it’s a gargantuan swirl of guilt, heartbreak, and regret. I’ve literally spent countless hours with my brow furrowed, grasping to conceive of a rational explanation as to why such a trite, banal, even tedious treat should have such a “python-like” vise on me. My weak-kneed attempts toward justification by the “we all have our dirty little secrets” rationale are rendered completely and irrevocably absurd each and every time I glance southward and catch a glimpse of the shocking and potentially deadly state of my ever-expanding waistline. My heart shutters at the highly-likely prospect that I’ll be forced to spend all of my remaining days on God’s green earth enslaved by this relentless, “hell bent on wall-to-wall destruction,” sweet tooth. To quench the thirst and valiantly attempt to fortify my body with a dash of sustenance after enduring the ill-effects of the nutritiously vacuous cake, I drank a tall glass of non-fat milk.
What was the last thing you did? Much has been made in the public, especially over the last few years, of my personal aesthetic appearance, criticisms have abounded from several different sectors which have culminated in me acquiring the personal reputation of being somewhat of a slob. Peers have made suggestions “behind my back” that I favor scuffed shoes, torn trousers and exclusively stained, corroded looking shirts. In my defense, I’d like to point out that I’ve never been the type to follow or adapt to the fickle folly behind most if not all fashion trends. My tastes are and always have been artistic, and I’d be willing to bet “dollars to donuts” that my lack of clothing taste is usurped by canyons with my knowledge of music, theater, and most notably, the cinema. So good-for-nothing, cigar-chomping aspiring fashion critics (who themselves favor countless t-shirts featuring comic book characters, of all things), like Dennis, who think they’re stumbling upon some deep and insightful discovery by alerting people to my clothing flaws come across as imbeciles, because truth be told this has been the path my life has followed since the day I shed the confines of diapers. Another aspect of my day-to-day life that these undermining charlatans fail to account for is my all-consuming, attention to detail, fanatical, dynamism that I apply to personal hygiene. My hour-long showers are legendary, and in my 50 years I’ve never been criticized for as little as a dirty fingernail. Bragging is not my intention or forte but suffice it to say the shower, shave and fingernail maintenance session I finished moments ago was undertaken with a degree of vigor, discipline and enthusiasm that a deranged, ruffian slob lobbyer like Dennis could only dream of.
(hello sam)
What was the last thing you ate? Well, I’m hesitant to reveal the following details in a public venue, but like I said earlier, my intention upon committing to this project was to be sincere and willing to disclose any and every detail required. That said, the last thing I ate were the delectable, inimitable, and shockingly consistent for a factory processed snack, the illustrious, esteemed and legendary DRAKE’S COFFEE CAKE, which my ever attentive wife keeps well stocked in our establishment to satisfy the nocturnal cravings of the children. Given my druthers, I’d eradicate the little bongdiggly bastards’ presence from the premises entirely, as the mere hint or suggestion that they’re within reaching distance swells such a lust in my loins that my self-control immediately spirals into a tailspin, the magnitude of which forces me to submit to the relentless craving regardless of any dietary restrictions I’m attempting to abide by. Unfortunately, my long suffering wife is assaulted with such a stunning barrage of hysterics from the children on a day to day basis that any and all calming apparatuses, which the Drakes cakes are in spades, must smartly and strategically be kept on hand “around the clock.” The doldrums that descend upon me immediately after consumption are virtually indescribable, but let me assure you it’s a gargantuan swirl of guilt, heartbreak, and regret. I’ve literally spent countless hours with my brow furrowed, grasping to conceive of a rational explanation as to why such a trite, banal, even tedious treat should have such a “python-like” vise on me. My weak-kneed attempts toward justification by the “we all have our dirty little secrets” rationale are rendered completely and irrevocably absurd each and every time I glance southward and catch a glimpse of the shocking and potentially deadly state of my ever-expanding waistline. My heart shutters at the highly-likely prospect that I’ll be forced to spend all of my remaining days on God’s green earth enslaved by this relentless, “hell bent on wall-to-wall destruction,” sweet tooth. To quench the thirst and valiantly attempt to fortify my body with a dash of sustenance after enduring the ill-effects of the nutritiously vacuous cake, I drank a tall glass of non-fat milk.
What was the last thing you did? Much has been made in the public, especially over the last few years, of my personal aesthetic appearance, criticisms have abounded from several different sectors which have culminated in me acquiring the personal reputation of being somewhat of a slob. Peers have made suggestions “behind my back” that I favor scuffed shoes, torn trousers and exclusively stained, corroded looking shirts. In my defense, I’d like to point out that I’ve never been the type to follow or adapt to the fickle folly behind most if not all fashion trends. My tastes are and always have been artistic, and I’d be willing to bet “dollars to donuts” that my lack of clothing taste is usurped by canyons with my knowledge of music, theater, and most notably, the cinema. So good-for-nothing, cigar-chomping aspiring fashion critics (who themselves favor countless t-shirts featuring comic book characters, of all things), like Dennis, who think they’re stumbling upon some deep and insightful discovery by alerting people to my clothing flaws come across as imbeciles, because truth be told this has been the path my life has followed since the day I shed the confines of diapers. Another aspect of my day-to-day life that these undermining charlatans fail to account for is my all-consuming, attention to detail, fanatical, dynamism that I apply to personal hygiene. My hour-long showers are legendary, and in my 50 years I’ve never been criticized for as little as a dirty fingernail. Bragging is not my intention or forte but suffice it to say the shower, shave and fingernail maintenance session I finished moments ago was undertaken with a degree of vigor, discipline and enthusiasm that a deranged, ruffian slob lobbyer like Dennis could only dream of.