Sitting restlessly at the edge of sanity, I stare down the precipice with a hot earthen mug of Folgers coffee in my sweaty palms. My feet just hang there, listless, waiting for the flames to rise out of the gorge and consume my eternal soul. I carefully raise my cup 'o joe up to my muzzle and take a long sniff of the pungent brew. Hints of raspberry, cardamom and white truffle waft up into my inflated nostrils. At that moment, I let out a horrendous cackle! Midnight black vampire bats are startled from their inverted comatose state and with a swoosh, they fly away into the moon's mischievous face. I wonder where I was, where I am, who I am? Why does my head smell like roast pumpkin and beetroot? No time to ponder these nuanced thoughts anyhow. My hind limbs reach out from the crimson red pool of rhubarb soup I'm bathing in and provide my rostrum with a vigorous scratch only to be matched by the fiefdom of Carlighel and the duke's spotted antelope lover. I think to my other self that I must have left the oven on because my lower vertebrae are beginning to feel warm as stewed turnips. Boy George! I can't seem to get the saucy ideas of delightful delicacies out of my crowded cranium! Did I eat after I took the mayor's dog to the carwash? What if it rains tomorrow, and my underpants have not been fully baked? I put them into the oven only 20 minutes ago. Surely they will be done by yesterday's winter solstice! I hock up a ball of fur and this I mat out into a pleasant toupee. Plop! It fits perfectly over my pumpkin head. Sigh! Where did I leave my reason and rationale? Could have been in the bowling alley that I went to two weeks from today.
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