All along the precipice of a ramshackle goat path there toddled a transplendent little creature comfort named The Mick Fitzi Unka Harlios. The Mick Fitzi Unka Harlios was no stranger to airborne diseases and so, beneath its hairline, proudly exhibited the most vertiginous croupy-cough the world had ever danced around.

On Mondays, The Mick Fitzi Unka Harlios would fill its attractive golden lunch box full of nutritious sediments it had painstakingly gathered the previous fortnight, and jitterbug up the side of Mount Yakkabasket to the General Motors plant. Here, it would sit itself down upon the nettles, rummage about in the lunch box until noon, and afterward settle in for a month-long sleep that would last until four p.m.

For it was at 4 p.m., at the end of every shift, that a shrill whistle sounded throughout the foothills tickling them pink. And upon hearing this whistle The Mick Fitzi Unka Harlios would climb out of its deep repose muttering to itself, “I must have drifted off to slumbertines.” Then, scratching its lugubrious forehead with the tip of an almost perfect undercarriage, The Mick Fitzi Unka Harlios would lightly close the lid of its attractive golden lunch box before returning to the ramshackle goat path for an evening of pylo-erector spasms.