Sometime soon, I am going to visit Menard’s, Lowe’s or some other Temple of Manly Gear, and buy a flashlight.
Not just a flashlight. A flashlight.
A monster of a flashlight. One that hums when it’s powered up, like Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory machineries – cue Igor, bellowing, "It’s alive! It’s alive!" – and is so [censored] bright that anyone caught in its beam will end up like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters. The Luxor Casino in LasVegas will extinguish its beacon in shame and inadequacy when I illuminate the heavens with my new flashlight.
And no one will be allowed to touch it, except me.
(Clearly, my recent dental misadventures, coupled with the cold that’s currently immiserating my respiratory system, have unhinged my reason. Perhaps I should swig some generic nyquil, read a bit about Sidney Lanier – fascinating fellow, Mr. Lanier – then go to sleep before I embarrass myself further.)