I was sent on a marvelous quest to southern Winnebago tomorrow afternoon, to profess my undying love to the sun who butchered my computer in late '76, as repraisal to His Almighty Lord and Turkey Mr. MonkeyMeister the 3rd, in E minor.

I requested this trip as compensation to my thoughts about the Ozymandias scam, back in 2022: I need more bacon; my dog is getting lonely.

As I stare into the early coasts of the bleeding twilight cat woman, Cahlihi Da, I contemplated my mortality, my morality, and my sexuality, as I gently stroked the smooth, furry mane of my twin brother, Winfred, who just woke up from the train ride that so plagued his innards. Well, so much for Nixon, I guess.

Anyway, I see now that staring into the eyes of the famed buck-toothed Ontario Riderbellies of Euclidian descent, I now realise no one cares about the mountain and its undying significance, as long as 70-year-old Harrison Ford gets to star in the Lobster Comedy: Tales of the Deep. Until then, all will be right with the world. All will be right.

This is Geico's stand. Ba ba ba ba baa I'm lovin'it.