There once was a putz named Run-On Ron after some poor sod who always tripped when he ran and became useful as a human speed bump in the same way beer supports the morale of the  working man that usually complains about not enough money but hates to work overtime when life is too short on some kind of dream about dessert toppings being on sale for insanely-low prices that would make your cat learn calculus and even sew that annoying rip in your favorite trousers that nobody seems to like the way they’re snug in all the right places you wish some hot mama would notice instead of drooling over her rich ape of a boyfriend that never listens to what she has to say about the amazing sex-drive of a thirty-nine-year-old giraffe she saw on a fantastic acid trip on spring break near Lake Havasu’s riverside boardwalk needs repairing because Run-On Ron knew nothing of simple car maintenance that’s pretty costly if your only source of  income is being a human speed bump so people will throw money at you out of pity for the asphalt getting horribly eroded by nasty snow storms that are cold enough to make you wear long underwear instead of stuffing your pants with itchy cotton balls that only make you itch and feel awkward when you’re a rambling kind of guy who’s rubbing his crotch against confused dog legs which need to be looked at by veterinarians who are less interested in cheap thrills that are quite hard to come by way of long walks into the deep, dark heart of Northeastern Ohio in search of something special like a G.I. Joe action figure he once owned that could do the most amazing karate chop with one foot wrapped around his neck in a way that impressed the Barbie dolls but never got him laid because he was plastic and abusive in a way that would have intimidated most psychotic children are usually not very forgiving him any leeway to anyone except their invisible friends that never lost appeal even when they were captured by the evil Turd Tyrants who shunned Ron when he had to dig his favorite toy out with his bare hands and nobody likes caca on their hands but dogs don’t care about that kind of stuff because they’re stupid and Ron likes stupid dogs because they make him feel smart when he seriously screws up something simple or doesn’t know the weather in Tibet because he’s too busy worrying about whether or not his fish are mating right now because they’ve seemed kind of standoffish since he put in the new plastic castle that sort of resembles the Lego thing he made in the seventh grade that his mother told him would summon demons from Hell and that the mailman would never deliver to a house that boasted a two-headed dog and a satanic Lego structure that was torn down with the house by a horrendous tornado named Skippy that got his name from the peanut butter that’s pretty tasty with almost any jelly and Run-On Ron keeps running on and on and over and under towards an inevitable destiny that should have been decided ages ago when old was new and the weight of the entire debacle made him fall to his knees in pent up agony and scream to the  heavens: “I…NEED…AIR!” but alas, this slight moment of weakness was what the gods of  grammar were waiting for and smote him for not getting to the fucking point in a timely manner.