Tis a morn, tis a morn, gents and gently's.
I wished to write a succulent novel regarding my relationship with Sarah Bellum, as I, on most days, opt to do. However, today's wine of events has filled my moral palette with a bad aftertaste. I am speaking, of course, about the perpetual sadness which the daily news brings forth.
While the sizzling of my bacon commenced, I sat on the couch this morn, requiring a mere handful of minutes of entertainment. My eyes, instead, were filled with sorrow. Planes crashing into houses, Madrid filling with flames, and Fay ravaging Florida.
Why, I ask myself, do such wicked events occur in such a joyful, erotic world as the one in which you (and, on occasion, I myself) live?
That, however, is not a question of importance to ask, but merely a prelude. The greater question plaguing my mind is as follows: What, in fact, is in bacon, which makes it sizzle so, in a way which, say, a Pug or reproductive organ would not, when placed on a similar frying pan?
Weighty matters require weighty thought! But such is the life of one who dares to Jangle with fate.