I'd write something here, something useful, something interesting, something obtuse and acutely profound at the same time, but for one problem: the invidously incipient garden gnomes steal my thoughts. Whining and pining, wheedling and needling, they all come, one by one, and pluck the thoughts out of my juicy cerebellum and parade around town in them, naked as an octothorpe in a January wind! Babbling, they wrench the individual thoughts from my head, flabbling, they run away, away, trailing my ideas and memories behind them, laughing and snickering they go. Oh, how they go.
I wear the fez, the protective fez that I won long ago in a Sicilian rat-fighting contest, but the gnomes still -- even still! -- steal my thoughts, one by one, by the bushel and by the yard, mocking me as they shocklingly allude to invidous occultism and foreign millenia. The gnomes, they sicken me. Garden gnomes, garden gnomes, we all fall down!