Mr. Goodbar dropped two Ice Breakers into his glass of Special Dark scotch and slid deeper into his bubbling Pot of Gold. This was Bliss. It was Simple Pleasures like these that helped him unwind after a long week at the plant. Just as the Symphony began to crescendo out of the speakers his Blackberry began to buzz. "You'd better have Good & Plenty reasons to be calling me on a Sunday—Mounds of reasons!"
Goodbar's face went blank as the caller hit him with the Pay Day. "Jolly Rancher tweeted WHAT?" he shouted, before collecting himself. "Take 5—I want Zero retweets, you hear me? Zero. If that Zagnut thinks he can tweet those Whoppers he's goddamn Nutrageous. Don't move I'll be down in a Fast Break."
Goodbar stood up and reached for his robe, when his mind suddenly flashed back to his childhood, when he was just a Miniature—a Proustian interregnum. He was in the middle of a bucolic Heath. He smelled…Almonds? "Joy!" Goodbar called to his wife. "Arrange that car service for me. Skor or Uber, or whatever nonsense. I gotta go back to work."
As he tied the Twizzler tassles on his robe, his dog burst in the bathroom and planted him with Kisses. "Rolo! Down Rolo! Dammit this dog needs a Breathsaver!"
