It is so difficult to get anything done around here…

I’ve been working on a cure for esophageal cancer, utilizing a form of chakra meditation translated from Alpha-Centurion alien lightwave transmissions and some proto-nuclear synthetic microbiorganisms that I whipped up in my blender, when I hear a knock at the door. It’s a salesman. Dressed in the poorly-cured skin of a musk ox, he’s holding a human skull in his hand. The top has been crudely sawed off, no doubt with a sharp rock, and a loathsome viscous mixture slops out of it. “You drink!’ He grunts, “You drink!  Give to me wheat and tubers, and you drink! This good potion! Bat blood, newt guts, fermented many moons for increased efficacy! No more demons when you drink! No fevers and ague, and long-lasting erection is guaranteed! This week only just nine tubers, one sheaf wheat!”

He was hard to get rid of, and by the time I went back to my microbiorganisms, they’d dessicated. So I decided to go out for a bite to eat. Zipping down the ultrasonic hoverway in my Vacuutron 9000, I was delayed for many precious moments by two morons who’d managed to get their mastodons wedged together in an underpass. They had dismounted and one was methodically pulverizing the head of the other with a stone axe. I had to laboriously back up to the previous hoverway exit.

I arrived at the cafe, and ordered a delightful repast of Vitajellies and Nutripills. The waitress totally ruined my meal by bringing me the wrong order. After lifting the lid and surveying the raw calves’ eyes and live eels roiling in spit-roasted guinea pig torsos, I lost all appetite.

I stopped off at the Hypnoschool to pick up my schedule for classes in Super-Extra-Sensory-Telepsychology, only to find the Campus completely destroyed by an emerging volcano. A great crowd of swarthy brutes dressed in cloaks made of severed human arms were hurling co-eds into the maw of the volcano, chanting to some giant Hamster-God.

Tried to call my Dad on the Videophone, but by the looks of his Skypartment, he’s been eaten by one of those roaming gangs of cannibals. All I could see on his videofeed was the hairy back of some Cro-Magnon, squatting on haunches and gnawing on a leg, which terminated in one of my Dad’s favored Wingtips.

That disturbed me somewhat, so I went home, delayed once more by some idiot who couldn’t parallel park his Giant Sloth, and put a Tranquillodisc in the AtmosMusicitron. Next thing I know, that same salesman is back at my door. This time he’s trying to sell me a rusty trepanation drill. These guys don’t know when to quit.

I’m going to give up on my cure-for-esophageal-cancer hobby for the rest of the day and try to relax so I’ll be ready for my job tomorrow. I’m hoping we can make progress on our initiative to end global hunger. We can grow bananas as big as the Eiffel Tower, but we’re still having trouble with the giant broccoli. Unfortunately, this is also the week that my Pastor expects me to hunt down several of the accused witches of the windswept veldt, kill them with a stick and eat their hearts, and I’m having difficulties prioritizing tasks…


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