“Now, the song.” Sock said. “I worked on this a bit last night, but I’m going to kind of belt it out as I go along, like Wesley Willis. Ready?
“I used to love her/Then I had to kill her/Yet I can still hear her complain.
“So go the lines of my favorite song. Lovely Rita, liberated maid. I often wonder what genius lies behind my balls as they grow and sweat lipstick. I just love the curve of her hips and the flat stomach and the pert breasts and the scrumptious little ass and the perfect legs and the long hair and the blue eyes and the no tan lines and the blue eyes and the case of Listerine and the midget and the skirt which is really a pair of cleverly disguised underwear rub up against me in the middle east in…
“Yikes, lost that one. I’m…and, yeah…”
Sock stopped speaking and stared blankly ahead.
“Boss?” the Scribe asked.
Sock continued to stare into middle space.
“Gone again!” the Eunuch announced.
With a sigh, the Chief Scribe leaned back. “I don’t know why the fuck I signed on for this job. I was making a living out there writing medical documents.”
Many years ago, a dream I had stated that there would be a boy born unto the Hebos. And that boy shall grow into a man, and his name (as well as the secret of the universe) is
(The remaining portion of “Subliminal Messages on The Cereal Box” was destroyed by a tragic milk spill while we were proofreading during breakfast. We apologize for any inconvenience, and assure you that the rest of this chapter wasn’t really that interesting anyway. Hail BOB. Obey!)