This morning's power cut sent the mind to wandering deep into the corridors of the conspiracy theorist. Fairly convinced it was a deliberate act on the part ne'er-do-well control freaks hell bent on disciplining my own personal and sometimes erratic fabric. Never have fully trusted the automated meter reader, and it's a well known fact that all electrical outlets are listening devices. The new squirrely light bulbs emit frequencies that can read thoughts and report back to a Supreme Court composed of nine John G. Roberts clones.
It was probably something I said in a moment of intense reverie, a profound
utterance which due to poor sentence construction and incorrect punctuation was
misunderstood, reported to higher authority, someone called Sammy, a knock
kneed, spotty faced, non-smoking twenty something with an Oedipus complex,
skinny girl friend, a passion for Mars Bars and Star Wars. For two hours I
learned to hate Sammy. And it just seems wrong to be so emotionally attached to
the electric supply.