The tortoise crossed the finish line, winning the big race, in perhaps, the greatest upset of all time, excluding the ’85 Chicago Bears loss to the Washington Generals. It was debauchery to the nth degree, yet pure digression.
Two baby birds were screaming bloody murder from their nest high up in the tree. It was a mess, embryonic goo and eggshells all over the place. It smelled pretty funky too, dried twigs and bird droppings. One unhatched egg sat between them. [SAD STORY, SPOILER ALERT: That egg is never going to hatch, which is sad. It could’ve been the bird that saved humanity as we know it.]
The stanza was quite pleased with himself, so much so, he took a puff from his hoobastank of a Cuban cigar and exhaled three smoke rings. I must interpose a moment, for I have been trained as a musicist.
a person who shows or feels discrimination or prejudice against styles of other music, or who believes that a particular music is superior to another.
“That musicist claimed Tears For Fears was his favorite band, ergo, he was bogus.”
When Randall Cunningham learned the definition of panacea at the tender age of eight, his life changed. He was a boy on a mission. He would discover the cure for every known disease.
In his tenth year of existence, he claimed, “My cure will be a three and a half minute perfectly crafted song. Something so catchy, infectious, and easy to sing that anyone would be able to cure any disease.”
Of course, everyone thought Randall was completely off his rocker. These words, out of context, were those of a mad man. Randall’s parents were as supportive as they could muster. Keep in mind, if you spawn a child this obsessed with the word panacea, you may want to take a good look at yourself. There is help.
Randall was 38 years old. He was on his way to the patent office. All that hard work had finally paid off. He was strutting and strolling down the street. His mind was racing. Finally, respect from my peers. Everything will be different. I will need to open a savings account. So much money. Need to call Uncle Alan for that investor’s number.
Such a terrible last thought, as a speeding bus sideswiped him. So lost in thought, he forgot to engage and look around. If he had more time, he would definitely pound his forehead with his fists three times. This was his trademark move.
As he convulsed and screamed with severe pain, which oddly sounded like pure joy but with different facial expressions, he sang out loudly the three and a half minute paean of panacea. You could hear a lifetime of work as his barely melodic shrill song stopped traffic around him. All those within earshot of the dying Cunningham III were cured of their ailments. One woman with ADHD never realized she was cured, she figured her new sense of wellbeing was because of her new high-fiber diet. One color-blind man freaked out hard and ended up in an asylum. A deaf woman had a nervous breakdown trying to understand how she could hear the cure.
MORAL: Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.