"We won't know until the autopsy."
“Why, Mr. Randolph, you’re not following me here. Listen carefully, please, I will repeat it. I’m telling you that this is a permanent medical condition, it will be with you for the rest of your natural life; sir, I’m afraid that you’ll never be able to have sex again . . . Mr. Randolph? Mr. Randolph? Nurse, get the smelling salts! Stat!”
~
Wait, you’re a science-educated guy, so you know all kinds of potions and elixirs. I have been afflicted with a mysteriously-administered and potentially debilitating medical condition that promises to ground me in my most prolific contribution to human femaledom, thereby rendering me less influential in the world of Er, uh, um, of “harem management”. Yes, let’s call it that, harem management. As soon as my lack of relevance in my chosen field is made public, you make a bid for the spoils, and long before my corpse is even cold, I must add. One take on this requires an examination of which party or parties stand to gain the most from the demise of my hierarchy in the microcosm, the only logical connection following A leads to B leads to C leads to conclusion is that you are the most obvious suspect in this bloodless coup attempt! My legal staff has already begun a flanking maneuver to cut off your attack, and in working with my medical clinicians to identify the venomous bile you’ve slipped to me, and to locate the most effective antidote to reverse its stranglehold on my amorous lifestyle. Grrrrrrrr.
~
Dilemmas, dilemmas! Vegemite as an avenue to ensure continued sexual pleasure, or living a life without it by honoring my hatred of the vile potion?
(Sigh.) I guess I’ll be living out the remainder of my life in a secluded monastery under vows of silence, poverty, piety, celibacy . . . hell, gimme a spoon. Grrrrrrr.
~
(Tour Your condition . . . )
Randy D 