Some think smoking is abhorrent.

To whom it may concern

I was shaving at a convoluted angle when I received a call from one of your telemarketers informing me that I had won ownership over a small (thought thoughtfully-shaped) rock in the South Pacific. This call rendered me suitably irate as I had gotten the cord tangled around my nose, which, I am not ashamed to admit, resembles the beak of a toucan. This, however, is not the reason for my addressing you in this heartfelt letter filled to the brim with my blind anguish.

After the initial congratulatory news, I noticed that the man speaking (introduced by himself as 'Bradford') seemed to have a slight ashen lilt to his tone; akin to that of a man who makes it his habit to chainsmoke 40 cigarettes a day. He sounded as if he were about to dissolve into profuse coughing any moment, which put me on guard as being stranded on the phone with a man hacking out his respiratory organs is an awkward social situation indeed. Then, infuriatingly, I thought I could hear the faint sound of flint, striking against each other in the background. Because I am a gentleman, I will refrain from voicing my speculations as to what was happening at that moment. However, I can assure you that if I were correct about his actions, he would have been doing something both pitiful and hideously obscene.

I cannot believe that you would let your employees smoke so much. It is irresponsible on your part as the owner of your treacherous audiophilic business to allow for your callers to disturb and frighten clients with threats of dying of lung cancer. You could be losing customers, revenue, and hundreds of lives. I hope you think about that very carefully. From my brief 2-minute exposure to Bradford's auditory persona, I am able to deduce that he is of the very scourge of society; a man who would not think twice about kicking a blind man in the money tray, a felon who does not hesitate taking that extra pump of the Steers' excellent mustard sauce; a tramp who inserts his business into other peoples' toilet towel cardboard tubes. Please speak to Bradford about his tobacco-addiction, and if he fails to remedy his nicotine problem, I'm afraid you'll have to kill his wife.

Thank you.

Regards,

Baldrick von Staten

Ewan's leatheresque pants antics

This morning I was engaging in a dream in which a small paraplegic dwarf took residence on my face, gradually inserting both legs into my nostrils before jacking himself off vigorously once he was sure his stiletto heels had been successfully planted deep in my olfactory tissues.

Unceremoniously, I was awoken by my dad watering his garden, generating a sound that I previously only possible via the ejection of whale semen. I resigned myself to fate, and being secrectly angry as I burrowed my head into my blankets and attempted to fall asleep again. This endeavour was unsuccessful, partly because my sinuses felt like I had been snorting crystallized acid, and partly because my dad had taken to loudly conversing with a neighbour living two blocks away.

By then I was more than moderately pissed off as I hoisted myself into an upright position and discovered that my head must've shattered into 37 seperate pieces while I'd been sleeping. I made a mental note to thwart any future 'elevator dreams' I may have the misfortune to dream about in the future.

I decided the only way to take control of my current predicament was to walk to McDonald's and buy myself a pound of lard to scoff. I made no effort to look good, chalking it up to the fact that I wanted to at least blame something on my cold before it evaporated.

Surprise! I was served by a gangly, misshapen man with a nametag that spelled out "EWAN" in Times New Roman. I have had many experiences with Ewan, most of them revolving around Chicken McNuggets, missing sauce and his perilously tight pants.

A friend and I have complained on the 'Customer Satisfaction Surveys' about the nature of Ewan's demon trousers: Aside from being grievously underwashed, they also wrap around his bow-shaped legs like clingfilm on a block of rancid, stained cheese, leaving little to the imagination and displaying his sizeable package for the world to see. However I don't think they took us seriously enough. The next week I returned as a regular customer to see Ewan's pants as tight as ever with what looked like a small codpiece adorning his nethers.

So I stood there, barely able to keep my eyes open and thinking "I really don't have time for his distracing body-hugging shenanigans", when I accidentally looked down and discovered that his pants were...LOOSER. I was so happy I would have cried right there except it may have been embarrassing to do so.

Of course, there was a catch.

When I returned home and looked into my bag of hotcakes, there was no syrup.

Aaaaaaaagh.