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Rennie

How can even the clandestine, empirically verifiable concierge centered wit of Bran Made Rennie compete with millenial forces, global angst, and the New Orleans Picayune Gazette? That was a rhetorical question. I need only feel that you have heard me, that you are there for me, that you will nurture me in my spiritual quest for the missing micro lozenge, and that you will not indulge my appetite for Cajun fishwiches.

It is indeed wrenching to transition from the luxury of open-ended multi-directional inner-generated palaver to the parsimony of rigorous well-defined, yet suitably simmered content. In fact, I have been saying hello to you for so many years now and it is never anything but fresh, a burst of Peppermint Patty upon the winter solstice of society’s soulless sibilance; it is flushlike in its exuberance, left handed in its sporacity, and bioflavinoid in its suture savvy.

So let us agree to revisit the plenipotentiary crème de brule on an inflammatory wicket burl, complete with all bran. Do not for one second forsake the idiosyncratic fluttering of the turnip harp. Realize that it has longed for jasmine polyps and honed its flattery post to a quadratic razor dip. And then and only then, walk out the door, a smile of votive indolence caressing the motor pool.