Back to this wretched thing, eh? I suppose I should be; these epics don’t write themselves, you know. (“You know?” Why should I use such a colloquialism there? Obviously you commoners do NOT know, else I would not have needed to go through this tedious explanation.) Oh, I suppose now is the time I attach a picture of my mentor “Neon” Deion Sanders so all you simpletons depending on Foot-Ball for visceral thrills get your loathsome fix. This man is so much more! So much more than what you imagine him to be! D— you, ESPN, for sullying this gentleman’s name! You shan’t have my viewership again until you bring back the Scrabble Champion-ships! Here you are, laymen.

(A lad by the name of John F. Rhodes is responsible for this photo-graph.)

For those interested in intellectual exploits the likes of which are few and far between in this cultural wasteland we inhabit, continue perusing. Not that nothing here may be of interest to those simply pining for a few cheap laughs – far from it. Anyhow, I continued on my merry way, with one twist – the Irishman from before was in the fold with me. I had deduced that he was not inebriated, which impressed me so for a man of his heritage that I brought him along, hoping to enlighten him on how a master of human thought truly operates.

As we battled the terrain (I may be slightly embellishing for the purpose of enriching this tale; fear not, this is a common tactic), I was becoming slightly swole that the Irishman with the compelling sun-shades had not taken to me (or more importanly, been impressed by me) in the way I imagined he would. Things were about to turn, however. I had just finished quoting a lengthy passage from Don Quixote, only to still get no reaction from this strange man. In my exasperation, I exclaimed, “My G-d, man, in the name of love! What MORE in the name of love?!”

Well, I should say I have seen nary a man’s eyes light up so quickly as his in this moment.  I could hardly believe what I saw…an utter transformation. I could only say, “My good man, what in this dire proclamation has moved you ever so!”

He simply responded, “Well, you ought to know…are you a fan?” ME? A fan of HIM? How dare he suggest such a thing?! What in his feeble mind possessed him to have such a thought?! What has this world become? He must have seen the look of disgust on my face, because the next thing I knew, this rascal was showing me the cover of the Time magazine that had named him Man of the Year. Trying to win me over with THAT?! I will let you be privy to this bit of information – it would take a significant amount more than that lowly rag of a publication to catch my attention. Such was his insolence that I abandoned him right then and there. I can only hope the ordeal taught him a thing or two.

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