Dear Arms,
I present you now with the callenge forged by Lord Parmesan the Great, to help cure my writers block.
The Contrants of which were:

no more than 3 characters
not all same gender

A feeling of contentment had to be expressed, and the words

never
hello
googles

had to be used at some point in the story. Please refrain from smoking and cell phone usage throughout the presentation of this story, and polietly keep in mind that since I only use wordpad, and have no self-structured sence of grammer or spelling. Also, before we begin, I would apparently like to share with you the following thought:

I just thought I should let you all know that apon writing this, i am wathcing the latlest Star Trek movie. I realized at one point that Capt Pickard was wearing a tank top, thus reveling he had considerable muscle mass on his arms whence flexed for a man of his age. I was both senierly disturbed that Patrick Stuart does anything resmebleing a physicalwork out, and somehow impressed that an old man can still have some sourt of muscle mass, even if he is the Capt of the Enterprise.



Purple, Errupting Flowers

I've got to say it's nice to know that they'res a low risk of sexual side-effects." Joe Madson had to agree. It was increadibly nice to know.
Sitting on his cardboard couch, feet up on his newspaper-stack automan, Joe nodded with the new reassurance he had gained from this commercial. What a wealth of well-being this Perscription drug company wished to bistow apon the general public! Why, as he looked at the people dancing on his television screen in a field of purple, errupting flowers, he felt...content. My oh my Joe thought. He had always had a desire to inhale hallucigenic plant matter. Perhaps, if he spoke to his personal phasision, as the commercial reccomended, and got an addiquate dose of this wonderful drug, he too, would feel this all encompasing...contentment.
Sure, he had not had a running outbrake of crabs within the past 8-16 mounths, suffering from a festering genital wound, or have a family history of foot fetishes, but he had no doubt his doctor would freely over look this and give him potent subscriptions of internal insecticides for no reason. Besides, if he had seen the commercials, he no doubt would understand Joe's quest.
Suddenly, Joe realized that the ever wonderous drug company also provided the common viewer with a 1-800 number to further sedate thier need for knowlage for thier product. He scrambled off his stacks of pre-processed paper products, tied with various lenghts of twine, and grabbed the phone. Apon listening to his operaters instructions, he failed to notice the commercial, still in process, produced a lenghty, yet in Joe's veiw surley improbable,list of side-effects. And as he listened to the robotic voice on the other end of the line, he felt that ever-encreasing wave of warm, fuzy...contentment...reach down to the very tips of his toes. Why, he couldn't wiat a moment longer!
He grabbed his trusty satchle and ran out the door, onto his small mint-green Vespa, and sped away, but not before strapping on his laser-guided, bullet-proof goggles, complete with matching green trim, SPF 43, and a built-in expresso machine. He glided through traffic, the wind in his hair, the contentment still gently ebbing through his vains, and a broken signal light, which in turn caused three near collsions and the early closing of the nearby KFC. (The later of which, no one really noticed anyway). Joe got thier in no time, and to continue with his good luck, a paricularly well endowed young receptionist at the front desk greeted him. She was leaning over, in the process of looking though a stack of files, and he was imedietly engrossed. She looked up, to find him in this state, and made a glotteral noise, akin to a cat hacking up a hair ball, in order to gain his attention. It worked.
"Hello!" Joe yellped, apon braking his gaze.
"Can I help you?," she sighed, nawing on gum."
"YES! You CAN!" Joe cried, brimming with the excitment of the whole thing.
The receptionist, obviously not empithtical, sighed yet again, making hand movements to suggest that Joe move his thought along.
"I'm here to talk to Dr. Gupta, about this wonderful new drug..." Said Joe, the tone in his voice emphisizing his new found contmentment, only now moving onto what could be described almost as enderment. An old friend he had not seen in years. Better yet: He was Forrest Gump, sitting on a park bench, telling the old lady next to him about the time he ment JFK and had to pee.
"Is it that purple thing?," receptionist moaned.
"yes." Joe said, nodding with the certianty that he had been understood, "yes it is."
"Third one this week," Receptionist said, as she squated down over the trash can under the desk and spit out her gum with such force a TWACK was heard as it landed on the papers bellow. She in turn, went through her stack of files and produced a small packet of papers. "Dr. Gupta is on his lunch brake, but you can fill these papers outnow to see if you qualify for the perscription, and he will get back to you."
Joe looked down at the challenge that layed before him becoming ever more pleased with the service the Perscription Drug Company was providign hte general public to ensure the sheer contentment throughout the use of thier drug. Surely, as such a loyal and devoted subject, he would be practically garenteed his perscription now. He happily filled out the paperwork, and gradually, his handwritting became more wimsical. Soon, he was dotting his "I's" with little hearts, and crossing his "T's" with what couls only be interpreted at demented attempts for stars. Time went by, whords of measles patients went in and out, and finally, though understanably questioning his sexuality, Joe was done with his paperwork-filling-out experience.
He handed his hefty clipboard over to the lovley receptionist. "You understand that by filling out this paperwork you in turn have signed something equivillent to a waver stating that we hope you won't sue us?" She tapped her abnormally long finger nails in the counter.
"You do that now?" Joe asked.
"No, not really. But wouldn't that be a great idea?" She asked, as she flung her head back and snorted a laugh. She sighed. "I kill me."
She looked back at Joe to see that he was no even more perplexed then ever, at which point, her face slumped back into a default blank stare. "Mr. Gupta will see you momentarily."
Joe went back to his seat, and sure enough, Mr. Gupta arrived from his office, smelling strangley of pickles, exactly 1.857 minutes later.
"Mr. Madson." The doctor shook his hand in an over compensative attempt to be formal.
"I see you have filled out the qualification papers for this new Purple drug thing. Apon reviewing your application, sir," At this point he began to sift through the papers for effect "I have to say, I'm sorry sir, but I don't think there's any real way you'd be able to take this drug."
Dumbfounded, Joe asked "WHY?!"
With a sigh, Dr. Gupta replied "Well Mr. Madson, you fall into many categories that could make you suseptiable for side effects."
"LIKE WHAT?!" Joe yelped.
"Let us see shall we? You are a caucasian male, in your 20s, are you not?"
"Yes."
"Well then!" Gupta through up his hands to emphisize the tone that was supposed to suggest that very statement exposed the meaning of life itself. Mr. Madson was clearly not in on that gist. Begrugingly, Gupta continues
"Your right eye is slightly bigger then the other, you have peanut and fish allergies. You are exposed to more than 50 continual units of sunlight per day. You took highschool German, you wet the bed as a child. You have no history of crabs, and according to Ebay your 3 members of your family once vomited whilst seeing another person's bare feet as they fought in the Army of the Patomac. But most of all, Mr. Madson..." At this point Dr. Gupta looked at Joe with a look that stated his sheer awe of human stupidity, and finished with "you do not have a vagina."
Joe blinked loudly. Clearly he did not understand.
"Mr. Madson, if you take this drug you will DIE."
"Oh." Replied Joe. "So then there's no way I could possiably take it, even if I..."
Gupta cut him off abruptly "Never."
Joe stood, utterly at a loss. His mouth gaped, his eyes buldged, tiney squeeks emerged from his mouth as he tried to form words. Finally: "I just wanted to run in a field..."
Dr. Gupta put a hand on the younger man's shoulder reassuringly and finished his sentence for him. "Purple erupting flowers. I know, I know. Listen, why don't you just...go eat a twinkie or something?"
Suddenly, a new light of hope emerged in Joe's eyes, as he began to stare off into a hypathetical light of discovery. "Twinkies..."
Mr. Gupta smiled to himself, and thought, Saving the world, one disturbingly unintelligent being at a time.

Fin.

Love,
Me

PS. Rachel, you need to call me eventually and tell me what you want me to get at Coldplay--it's on Sunday, you know. And Lauren, if you even like Coldplay or Rilo Kiley, I can get you something too. My only constraint for both of you is that it be cheap.