This is, as they have said time

and again, a tough job, but

somebody’s gotta do it, the world

needs a Relationist in such trying

times of swollen collective

unconscious, just absolutely

full to bursting with movie quotes,

bad jokes, Muppets, American

Idols. It is, you know, quite a bit

for one brain to handle, your

head gets all swollen and veiny

and gross, and the sick thing is

they keep adding more, more

more more, until your grey

matter hemorrhages out your

damn earhole, making a puddle

on the linoleum that your dog

is, regrettably, only too quick

to lap right up. It isn’t safe to add

more, to think new thoughts, to

be original. Let me ease your

pain. Make the connections,

string yourself a web of words

and arms and legs and raised

eyebrows. Soon you’ll be an

old hand, and yeah, your breakup

really will be just like that old

Led Zeppelin song, your friends

will be perfectly assignable to the cast

of Sex and the City (more than 4

friends? Try killing one off, but only

if you do it just like in Die Hard!),

the birth of your daughter will

be (more or less) just like Stevie

Wonder said it would be! Let

the details fade away, let the whole

mess of life and love and experience

and pop and literature compress into a nice,

easily digestible low calorie spread.

Let me help. Let me be your Relationist.

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