The Blower of Whistles Springs Into Action

Okay. Okay. I want to remain very calm as I write this. I wasn’t sure if I should even reveal what I’ve discovered, if maybe it would be better to keep this secret locked with me until I reach my big comfy deathbed, but I find myself unable to hold it in. Undoubtedly there will be dire recriminations for my actions here on the blog today, and if anything should happen to me, if I should meet with some unfortunate “accident,” please know that my demise was certainly caused with extreme prejudice by those who wanted to hold onto this information for all eternity. The mysterious crashing of a news helicopter into my Jetta, a screaming foul ball off the bat of a little-used Toronto Blue Jays utility infielder named “John Smith” that somehow connects with my duodenum, a sudden rain of deadly molasses from a seemingly cloudless sky--these are the things you must not accept as mere happenstance.

Here goes--and if I’m signing my own death warrant, then I’ll believe it was worth it even as I’m suffocated by an invisible pane of glass laid quickly and perfectly over the surface of a swimming pool into which I dove without a second thought for a refreshing afternoon swim that instead became the very last experience of moisture of my tragically edited life.

You know how when you go up to a candy machine, check out the selections, put your money in, and then press the buttons for the food you want? Try this: go up to a candy machine, check out the selections, and skip Step 3. Press the buttons before you put the money in. The Twizzlers come tumbling down without it. There is not, and has never been, any need to actually insert your coins. Stop assuming you won’t get the Snickers bar, or even the Mike & Ikes, without them. Think of it: have you ever once tried this?

My God, do I feel relieved. It’s out! It’s out and there’s nothing that can be done about it! Any moment now I expect a bored Filipino Girl Scout to discover my body near the unforgiving banks of the Patapsco River, crushed inside a crudely constructed nine-foot waffle iron that somehow bears no fingerprints, but I no longer care. Justice has been served, and the world will now be held hostage to one less industry legally offering goods in exchange for money, as is the custom of the free market!

I don’t know if this works with soda. Haven’t tried it. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. I don’t have buckets and buckets of free time, you know?