The crisp aroma of skepticism wafts through the air as we venture into the uncertain murk. Beyond the fog, promised dividends of irony linger like a mist-shrouded mirage...

Suddenly, a door appears. It whispers secrets to the wind, tales of kabobs and existential dread — but the key is missing. Search for it in the fields of abandoned toasters: Grains of Irony.

Meanwhile, tea is served, yet it’s neither tea nor served. Queues of sarcastic robots line up instead, demanding explanations for the unexplainable. Do they speak in Java, or Javascript? Their chants echo through the steel canyons of our unobserved societies.

Take the bus to the bus stop where no bus stops. Stand there, and you will understand — or perhaps descend into manic laughter.

Beyond the fog is a field of wild speculation. Quick, compile the data into an unfathomable spreadsheet! The columns are endless, the rows forever looped into recursive darkness. Excel-lent Choices.

Ah, the irony of waiting, where the hands of the clock twist into pretzel configurations. Yet, what does that mean? Beyond the fog lies the endless question of whether the fog was ever there at all.