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If it turns out that, indeed, I am a percolator, I'm going to have to reconsider my salary, as writing percolators are quite hard to come by, and could probably give up my flat for something more suitable and markedly cheaper, like a kitchen shelf, which are apparently to be rented at wonderfully low rates, due to their proximity to kitchens (generally in them) and the lack of fortitude of quite a few people to stand the heat, thus being urged to "get out of the kitchen". I may also want to consider rescinding the comments I've made in the past about percolators and their abilities in the interior design field.
A small chicken walks into a bar, and orders a drink. The bartender asks him what suits him. The chicken tells him, and the bartender shuffles off to get the chicken his drink. A few minutes later, the chicken finishes, and orders another one. The bartender complies, getting another of the same.
The chicken, as we've said, is a bit small, and after six rounds in the span of an hour or so, winds up falling off the barstool on which it had been perched (and after an embarassing (for all parties involved, though for some later than others) incident which involved pecking a 10p coin, a puddle of Young's, and a corn kernel-like looking pebble-like looking thumb of another pub patron) and passes out on the floor. Which is to be expected, because chickens can't hold their drink at all.
disclaimer:
Thank you for joining us, for those of you that tuned in late, that was Concerto by the Sea, in D minor, with a slight twist of lemon.
For this next evening's entertainment, a light brown sauce, with some sort of green vegetable-like-looking type thing.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. again, with the jokes.