There is a guy, a guy named Vernon, and he lives under my stairs. He came to me one night with nowhere to stay. So I let him sleep under my stairs. Sometimes he comes upstairs to relieve himself from hibernation, and one night he saw me on the computer. I told him that I was makin a website and he asked me if I could help. Hesitantly, I accepted his offer, even considering his health problems, and the fact that he brings nothing to the table in life. Even still, I felt I could use his personality somehow, so I have set up a page for readers to visit and send questions to Vern about daily issues that occur in their lives, Hoping that Vernon's wisdom can help them. Keep in mind, he is known to be quite bitter, due to his bad past, poor hygene, and rejection-filled lifestyle. Also, call him "Vernon" and never "Vern". The last person that called him "Vern" was gutted and then partially eaten. Don't forget to send Vernon your problems!
Dear Mr. Vernon
If I'm at a dinner party and bite into some bad-tasting food, what is the polite way to remove it from my mouth?
- Jennifer Dently, Albany, N.Y.
Well Jennifer, an important question, especially in these sad days of whining spoiled-brat crybabies in the American Workforce who are protesting more and more about demanding work conditions instead of just spending time improving their abilities to laze around and do less then a priest at a whore-house. I make this point to anticipate just such foreign objects in my food when in public dining situations. When the offending morsel of food is discovered in my teeth, I immediately stop my munching, push myself from the table and march determinedly toward the cook of the establishment. Upon entering the kitchen area, I zero in on the apron-wearing, chef-hatted individual at the grill. I walk straight up to his face, forcing him to lean back on the hot cooking area with his terrified trembling body. To the gratifying sounds of sizzling flesh, I reenact my days as a street fighter, as I violently spit the offending object into his fat face. At the top of my lungs, I threaten his entire family tree, and all of their respective pets, while the projectile from my mouth penetrates his greasy forehead with a resounding thud. The blood running down his face nicely illustrates that such life-threatening food conditions will not be tolerated and that my attorney will be contacting him in the morning. Most of my fellow colleagues claim that the best move is to spit the offending food into one's spoon and be done with the matter. But that's not Vernon's way, and it shouldn't be yours either! now, where was I? Ah, yes, off to do some more hit n' run killing.
- Vernon