Yes, the fat lady has sung and so did I. Here we have it ladies and gents, what drives me from my bunk in the morning. Her skirts lift, those curtains part, the clouds crack- and through we see the shimmer visage of a mountain adorned with all the unnecessary accouterments of that great hot, wet American dream: Breakfast. Yes, that ham is glistening. No, it is not a glaze. This sopping pile sits wallowing in a pool of juices not it's own: synthetic maple syrup. Those great ham pediments? cut from the thighs of our mountain dwellers, those Titans on High: flawed, made in our image, primordial, both super and sub human- what can we do but perform the rites and watch the auguries fly?
Well, regardless of poorly dressing'ed classical allusions, this hollow calorie hulk trebucheted my Monday morning into the red.
