Spoons

Let me begin by saying that I spent most of my day riding hither and yon to various and a sundry press junkets in a thirty foot limo. It should be apparent to you why this would logically drag my thoughts, kicking and screaming, to the pure insanity that is the spoon.

Clearly, limousines are fabulous abuses of natural resources that smack Mother Nature in the face with the el dente noodle of progress and excess, and spoons so obviously do the very same thing. So stop shoveling Fruity Loopies into your spoon hole while you sit at a long red light in your Yugo, and wrap your tiny, furry, point-five steps above a primate mind around the truth I'm dropping in your rainbow ring littered lap.

Spoons. Limos. 

Limos. Spoons.

The end of civilization in the form of the long, lazy bucket of a limo seat contoured to cradle your ever growing buttocks that thrives on every spoonful of extra creamy, double-whipped pudding pie delight. Has anyone looked at the rear quarters of a male ballet dancer lately? It so happens that I was recently forced to do so due to a medical condition and let me say this: Unless your butt can double as a wrecking ball, you need to avoid spoons all together. The bites are too easy, too big, and too prone to go straight to your arse.

Would you really want to find yourself stuck in a limousine... as if you'd ever find yourself in one.

Talk amongst yourselves.