The Rightful Return

Ben's back atop the pile of flesh, apparently organised into a ladder of sorts. And honestly, he should have never been taken off. But parodies aside, Tom clouded my judgment with the promise of a fruit tree worth of creativity, but only sent one rather shriveled apple which is yet to be delivered. Last night he moped around my garden with scanty pants and a handful of rocks crying catch-cries of the "Nobody loves me" and "My microphone doesn't work properly" ilk, while I snubbed him from the second story in favour of Hank Azaria and Jack Lemon in a screen adaption of Mitch Albom's Magnum Opus. He tested my patience, and evidently it didn't work properly. I apologise heartily to Ben and hope that Tom didn't make too much of a mess in the palace. My parting words: is it cowardice that prevents me from braving African disease?