Hi there, gentle reader! It’s your chipper CEO signing in, ready to boggle your mind with a confounding riddle.
What’s the best way to help a robbery victim find justice?
You’re stumped, I know, I can see it in your eyes. I’m in a fantastic mood, so I won’t leave you hanging. Here’s the answer.
Simple! Subpoena him for ANOTHER court date and force him to sit a couple inches from the robber for an hour or two.
Aunt Jemima above, dear reader! This is like having Christmas, albeit in a Hanukkah timeframe. HOORAY, HUGS AND KITTENS FOR EVERYONE!
The office left early to hit the local bar, gentle reader, but I decided to intoxicate myself with your presence instead. It always seems that whenever Friday rolls around, whether it’s raining or snowing or springtime or fall, the desire to journal decreases significantly. I should write a treatise on this, now that you mention it, but I’ve got so many others to publish.
You either came here to read something interesting or–and this is a far more likely proposition–the thousand monkeys you own finally banged out the correct URL into your browser. In all my linking, I’ve never introduced you to this site. Some of you have doubtless heard of it, but I bet quite a few of you could benefit greatly from visiting this site for the first time. What is it? It’s a paean to the odd, a massive collection of news articles wherein reality surpasses fiction in entertainment value. As always, read and eat.
We drove during the witching hour yesterday, the two of us, and when we reached a stoplight she broke the silence.
“It’s tough, isn’t it?” Muse said with her prescient charm.
I looked at the flashing pedestrian signal and contemplated the blinking person, always in motion yet never moving anywhere.
“Yes it is,” I replied after a while. “You finally learn a place, but then you want to go.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” she sighed.
“Oh?”
She peered out the windshield at a moon dyed crimson, a stubborn red answer to all the stars clothed in normalcy.
“I may be wrong,” she continued, “but you grow your roots somewhere, grow them deep down, and then there comes a time when you’re restless and your roots lose hold.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. So what should I do?” I wondered aloud to a pensive Muse.
She didn’t answer, so I looked at the stoplight with a rising sense of impatience, my thumbs futilely tap-tap-tapping the steering wheel in no particular rhythm.
“Will this light ever change?”
“I don’t know.”