I feel sorry for Vienna sausages. They are kept in tiny cans, drenched in their own fetid, slimy filth, people never buy them, much less ingest them, and they are repeatedly typecast into playing Tom Cruise.
To prepare for the sacred ritual of lawn-mowing, I wore a bandana three days before the blessed event were to enfold. When others queried of it, I refused to explain and satiate their feeble, impotent cribbage-playing minds. I'm far too metaphysical to bleed away preciois time instructing a band of cerebral gimps of the majesties of the shamans.