200th Anniversary Special

Back when the bloat was but a breath, I chiselled my posts on stone tablets and mailed them off around the world in search of potential readers. Now that may be hard to swallow, but I assure you, it's more or less (in this case, less) true, and it will be quite beneficial in the long run. Of course, once it's dissolving in your belly, it's too late for you to dictate content or even ripple ideas through the sub-editors, so you pretty much have to hold on until you release — though it's still worth shoving a few fingers down your throat from time to time on the off-chance that the gag wears fat and heaves up the horrible stew once and for all. Either way.

A scruffy writer waltzed into my office with a proud piece of foolscap and said two words: "Cover story". Sceptical, I peered down at the handsome sheet, which was as follows:

Thanks to a baffling demotion, my boss was under me. I misread the instruction sheet that came with my shield, you see. Anyway, I was fretting about launching into the annual battlefield recreation event tomorrow when my phone ran. It made it as far as the market, where it was cornered by two adjoining walls and returned unharmed to my tenderloin hook.

I sighed and signalled his exit. The next wordsmith in my office was much more clinically groomed, and he handed in his piece with warm humility and even a touch of grace.

Life sickens me. I'm gonna go wank.

"Better," I said. "But no."

The last one was some jerky post-modern piece, but, having no better option, I went with it. And besides, two sentences is much too bloated for insightful social commentary.