by Smiley McGrouchpants

            Colonized Mike shaved himself with a straight razor — the only way to go.  Continental.
            Swoop, swoop . . . swiiish . . . swoop, swoop . . . swiiish.
            It was days like this when he missed his father.  Having converted to Christianity fairly early on in his career — he had seen how Things Were Stacked — Colonized Mike's dad had shown him where the ropes were, and that they were, so as not to've hung oneself with.
            I owe all my success to him, he thought, laboriously, drying his hand with a towel, one of the many Montel Williams™- or Sally Jessy Raphael™-esque aphorisms he was wont to lay on educated people holding their drinks aloft at cocktail parties, feeling awkward and trapped.
            Missed!  The towel didn't make the basket.  Maybe I need to do more push-ups, he thought irrationally.  He was always worried about his weight and athleticness.
            He shrugged.  He left it there — the maid would pick it up, good to leave work for Mexican immigrants, gotta start somewhere, not unlike his dad coming over from India there's always a rope ladder to climb — and waltzed into the walk-in freezer for his imported boysenberry Eggo's™.
            Which he enjoyed, but . . . still.  Popping them into the toaster, pulling out his finery and imported from Vermont sugarless Maple™ syrup, Colonized Mike was troubled by something, some outstanding business he couldn't place . . . like the unread-past-a-couple-of-pages copy of Midnight's Children that had been lying on his bookcase for years, it just felt unfinished.
            Eggo's're done.