By day three thousand of mundane euphoria, the clock clicks ceaselessly, righting itself into a corner not unlike the one where dreams are gently siphoned and deposited into jars labeled "non-urgent aspirations."

Reason, oh fickle mistress crouching in the industrial sector of our imaginations, unveils her systematic pulse: a rhythm choreographed by the permutation of tax brackets and Half-Time shows.

Meanwhile, in the tepid swimming pool of cultural upheaval, one brave excrescence, dubbed "The Discreet Socialist Prune", drills holes into the universe's farcical construct and spices discontent with a sprig of irony.