In Your Lime-Green Face, Stephan

Before I forget, I shall now posthumously place Ben above Stephan, as he has suddenly created a barrage of posts on his site. Sure, I should probably wait a week or so to see if he keeps it up, but screw it; this fresh burst of ben-scented inspiration is all the proof I need. That's right Stephan, I'm taking away the meat platter and marble-substitute trophy and mailing them to the rightful owner — or Ben, depending on how guilty I'm feeling.

As for the punctual Parisian, well it's early days yet. But who knows? Maybe in a few short measures of time, you'll be ascending my hand-crafted podium with the intention of wrenching bawdy Ben off the blue circle. Then, perhaps, you'll hold the plate of carefully chosen deli meats aloft and thrust your pelvis joyously to the cosmos.

On the opposite end of the scale, Tom must still endure the humiliation of being on the poorly-made bottom rung, where his days are spent wailing up at Anh Tu's behind, which, thanks to his knowledge of Chaucer, constantly haunts him — though his handy red-hot poker grants him some relief there. Harry, meanwhile, invests his thoughtfully indifferent time by composing moving sonnets which, in all likelihood, no one will hear. I doubt anyone will read them, either.

And where do I fit in all this? Well, I play the part of myself. I watch from the highest seat — the stars, if you will — and massage my tender muscles in front of a mirror, whilst left over short people, who lost their home after Ben discredited them, run around my throne and quote my writings. It's not exactly ideal, but I get by.