OK, Skim Through It If You Must

Last night I awoke to find myself in the clutch of the Hamburger-Helper "Helping Hand" as it attempted to choke me to death. Luckily I subdued it with a ball peen hammer, which I keep under my pillow, and threw it out the window before it got the upper hand. This was actually the second time in a week I'd been through this routine! I should never have given the Hand a copy of my house key. The lock will be getting changed first thing tomorrow, believe me. I've had roommates from different walks of life before, but this guy is a total psycho.

It was a curious convergence of circumstances that got me here. I had been looking for a roommate, ever since the Special K rooster gave me notice that he was leaving for Rutgers last Fall. So one day, I'm sitting here minding my own business... stuffing tuna sandwiches into gym socks, when I hear a knock on the door. I open it, look down and see this smiling severed Hand! I ask you, what other human reflex could one have, other than crapping in your pants? So, when in Rome...

Like most people, I was familiar with the Hamburger Helping Hand from seeing the TV commercials. It would routinely jump onto the dinner table and endear itself to the entire family. It had a big red nose and a wiley personality that'd worm its way right into your heart. But I can absolutley say that, when it's there in front of you, it's not like that happy animated hand on TV at all. It's simply the most traumatic sight to the unsuspecting person.

And just how do you greet this mascot feller? Do you shake its finger, pull its thumb?

So anyway, after about 2 hours of hyperventilating, I finally calmed down. I showed the Helping Hand the vacated room for rent and it responded with a deposit, plus first and last'. Experience had already shown me that a product mascot could pay rent consistently and on time, given the sweet corporate contracts that they get. But sweet deals don't always stay so sweet. Soon after the Hamburger Helper "Spokeshand" moved in, domestic tensions began to mount. I casually told the Hand that, although I enjoyed an occasional Sloppy Joe, I was really an Uncle Ben's Minute Rice man at heart. That's when I first witnessed the Hand's ugly streak. It threatened that if I ever mentioned Uncle Ben again that I'd find myself anchored to the bottom of the Potomac by a 50-ton bag of rice.
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OK, so the preceding story was pretty stupid. So what'ya expect from me anyway? And while I'm at it, I don't want any more excessively sincere comments sent in. I only want replies from longshoremen from now on... people who know how to drink, and cuss, and fight, and piss like real men!!!... people who aren't afraid of living with gusto and burning rubber in the streets at midnight! Blokes with massively hairy backs who wear suspenders... yeah that's it... Those are the new rules.