The opportunity window

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The opportunity window is the "at last" portal to the world of missed ideals and the accretion rectangle for the entire windowing system serving WIMPs worldwide. It kindly stays open for us until precisely five seconds before we are prepared to pass through it. In this way, we are salubriously Kafkaized with the method of our choice.

Some have voicily opposed the practise of consuming baked muscle, saying the extreme heat is cruel to the dead fibres and hurts their vacuoles. These people are nothing but donkeys. Our practise of consuming muscle cakes and yeast patties daily has to be hung onto if we are to sustain strength and garrulousness sufficient to book it to the opportunity window less than ten seconds before it closes. Perhaps we can come to some sort of understanding on this point, possibly involving the exchange of money.

We have a rigourous quality control system on the tragic machinery handling opportunity window closure. All employees are required to don a quasisite from the liver quasisite receptacle. These quasisites sap sabotage-related thoughts from the employees, ensuring that the workings are covered in harmless chewing rum. Vacant Aunt Grumble is in charge of directing day-to-day operations for the Department of Disappointment. She also personally oils the shutters on the opportunity window and wails. Technically she is free to find promise on the window's hostile side, but she does so under the threat of having a lean put on her Earned Experience.

Tumoursaurus has promised he will come to our aid not more than eight seconds before opportunity end. He says he will help us lunge at the opportunity window for a lateness of no more than 1.65 seconds. That'll get us in the Drunken Book of World Records for sure.

Some question has been raised of whether the hyper-hyped Experience on the other side of the window isn't just an ill-geo-located pottery class and breakage ceremony on the out-fringes of southern Jammahawk. No comment.

Critics have compared this venerable window institution to a straw hucking game on the back of a common onramp sack for broad-a-roes. In particular, on reflection in a pail it is very similar to James Joyce's "The Properly Dusted Box." Killing a pelt is no easy matter, but as a critical charge it leaves lots to be the onlooker of someone desiring. The land beyond the window is just a greenery viewing window for chosen faces. They have to put up with early morning hidden-alternate-afternoon production too, w'know.

Dobey asks, "Don't people have enough disappointment in their lives? Is it really necessary to have an 'opportunity,' but we all know by now, disappointment window set into the wall of a raking tower?" Well, the space above the glass is empty. That's so you can look into it without drowning. And drunkards are ridiculous (unless you're drunk).

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