Wilford Gumby never liked his coffee too hot or his coffee to cold but it always was. Shuffling in grumbly in his old house shoes with the big toe poking through the ancient hole chewed by a dog long dead whose name he could not recall at all he tried to blink away the unsatisfying sleep of a king-sized bed by himself. Coffee alone with toast this morning as always and he could never get the butter and knife gathered in time for the toast to still be warm so the butter was never properly spread and he didn't believe in soft butter. Soft butter, like new house shoes, was the silly fluff of stupid lives. Wilford Gumby always had the paper in front of him, rustling in one hand, while he ate his toast and drank his coffee. He never read a word.
I want to buy a blender for Wilford Gumby. I think it might revitalize his deeply-rutted life. He could make smoothies of fresh vegetables and fruits. They might work wonders with his GI tract which, though he doesn't know it, is about to give him fits. I blame his diet. A blender might be just what you need, old boy. Throw in the coffee and the toast. Throw in the hard, cold butter. Throw in the knife and plate and mug. Throw in the newspaper and the old house shoes. Throw in the king-sized bed. Put on the lid and let it fly. You might be surprised.
I wouldn't drink it though.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
