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Description
    Affronted I was. So much by the bellicose temperament imposed upon me by the various kitchen utensils in my presence. The altercation was a din of cacaphonous "bad things" driving me insane. "NO! I'm NOT CRAZY!", or so had been said so many times before. Insanity is only a truth or falsehood in the perception. Difficult it is to say what is right or wrong, all is so unsure within the mind. Such a disgusting organ it is. It is full of ideas and potential goodness, yet it drips with all the evils and vices of man from its deep and vacuous holes.

    The implements of dinner were fresh in my mind. Each one an antagonist towards my plans to usurp the position of authority over my current mental state. There was a breach of the childhood covenant, which was once a culinary entente. One thing remained blaring in my mind, overbearingly louder than all the other noises present:
...humming the tune...
I wasn't sure as to what this meant, but I was sure that it was somehow connected to the bi-droning two-tone melody of my alarm clock in the other room.
...humming the tune...

    From the consulate silverware drawer eminated this mental beckoning, calling me forth. Such was the protocol of sinister silverware in that day and age. I was disinclined to acquiesce to the cookware summoning me from my sanctuary in the head seat at the dinner table. This position of prowess belonged to my father, and his father before that.
    These events led me to one conclusion, that Al Gore was indeed a robot.

Description
    Affronted I was. So much by the bellicose temperament imposed upon me by the various kitchen utensils in my presence. The altercation was a din of cacaphonous "bad things" driving me insane. "NO! I'm NOT CRAZY!", or so had been said so many times before. Insanity is only a truth or falsehood in the perception. Difficult it is to say what is right or wrong, all is so unsure within the mind. Such a disgusting organ it is. It is full of ideas and potential goodness, yet it drips with all the evils and vices of man from its deep and vacuous holes.

    The implements of dinner were fresh in my mind. Each one an antagonist towards my plans to usurp the position of authority over my current mental state. There was a breach of the childhood covenant, which was once a culinary entente. One thing remained blaring in my mind, overbearingly louder than all the other noises present:
...humming the tune...
I wasn't sure as to what this meant, but I was sure that it was somehow connected to the bi-droning two-tone melody of my alarm clock in the other room.
...humming the tune...

    From the consulate silverware drawer eminated this mental beckoning, calling me forth. Such was the protocol of sinister silverware in that day and age. I was disinclined to acquiesce to the cookware summoning me from my sanctuary in the head seat at the dinner table. This position of prowess belonged to my father, and his father before that.
    These events led me to one conclusion, that Al Gore was indeed a robot.