Tragically Fine

            It’s not everyday that you find yourself looking at yourself in a four-way mirror wondering if the yous that you don’t see are looking at you in one of those “I just cryogenically froze my brain cells so I don’t have to thank anyone anymore” type stare, but in a casual way of course? (breathe here) Anything stern would be uncharacteristic of yourself. (yawn with a small cough at the end here) Reflecting on reflections reflects the reflecting view of reflecting reflectors. I have exhausted my “the alphabetical symbol proceeding ‘Q’” Hence my lack of using that symbol within the finite length of this blog post. Now walk with me to the opposite side of my head in which we shall dissect the most enthusing of topics. The occupation ,or A “job” in lay man’s dialect, is an activity in which one man and/if woman   suck up to an exponentially heavyweighted man named “Bensodd” who happens to have his associates in mechanical bull fighting, (slid past the system by cheating his way in and out of hat dancing 402, he’ll tell you it was because of a chuck donkey in his leg.) His associates causes him not only to be qualified to tell people what they most obviously do in a sloppy, yet cornucopius way, but also gain access to a new all inclusive package to Satellite TV which includes a decade supply of Depends and enough Slim Jims to build a life sized imitation of Splash Mountain at Disneyland . “Don’t get below the man with the wooden face, said his shopkeepee.”  

Fo’ the definition of "occupation" I give you one final statement: “Don’t be Bensodd, because ‘odd’ is not a great suffix to have, especially amidst _______________”.

Industriously,

                       Kyle