What aid will I soon require, O mystical pseudo-Chinese pastry? What mighty forces have chosen this bastardized polygonal confection as their mouthpiece, their prophet, their 911 operator? Good evening, sir. The A-Team will arrive in the nick of time. Do not call or email - all lines are monitored by your enemies. Signed, your squirrel nut zipper.
This is merely the most recent successor in a long line of bizarrely incomplete cookie-borne admonitions. My favorite up to now was this half-pearl of wisdom:
All truth goes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is reviled.What? Third, what? What happens to the truth, fortune cookie? What happens?
I'll buy you a Coke if you once got a strange fortune cookie that might complete these bizarre transmissions. Something like "Third, Jon Stewart will stare at it with palpable incredulity" or "42". Or more pertinently "You are being secretly stalked by velociraptors, but don't worry because"
If it's the latter, let me know sooner rather than later.
Update:
Sullivan013 is quick on the draw, busting out Schopenhauer. Congratulations, sir - if you're thirsty, I'm sending the pause that refreshes in your direction.
