Once upon a time, lived a man. Ardent, industrious, ambitious, this man was intent on making the most out of himself. He always did his best, was impeccable with his word, and dressed not for the job he had, but for the job he wanted to have.
This man was a real go-getter. He never made assumptions, didn't take anything personally, and kept his eye on the big picture—his future. Asked to work overtime, he did it with a smile. Given half an hour for lunch, he took 28 minutes. This man abstained from tobacco, didn't gamble, didn't drink, and never complimented his boss's wife's tits, for such activities would only obstruct the achievement of his goals.
One day this man met a woman, and he set about courting her. He wrote her poems. He picker her posies. Whenever he needed to fart, he would excuse himself out of doors under the pretense that he had to go chop more wood, and long before the forest was cleared, the man had married the woman.
Once the groundskeeper of the Jolly Bollocks Inn in 19th century Liverpool, this man eventually became the inn's manager, and later even bought the place. The inn, destroyed by a fire over 100 years ago, stood on a spot now occupied by an outmoded adult video store.
The man, one George Timmerman, is now dead, as are his three children, all of his grandchildren, and anyone who would remember him. The few people alive who've even heard of Mr. Timmerman couldn't force themselves to really care, and even if they did, they too soon will be dead and the sun is set to implode in 4 billion short years, so who gives a shit.
