State of the Tart, Part B

This afternoon we received the remainder of the results from my recent tests. To say they shocked the pants off all of us here in the home office is a gross understatement (and, in the case of our 530-pound receptionist, just plain gross, especially considering she hasn’t washed her pants since March 2001).
The following are the rest of the laboratory’s findings:

  1. The elemental composition of my body (by weight) is not the standard 65% oxygen, 18% carbon, 10% hydrogen, and 7% other. Rather, I am composed of 80% cashmere, 10% silk, 6% cotton, and 4% other fiber. It is recommended that I cease taking showers and instead send myself out for dry cleaning (no starch, boxed).
  2. When I was a little girl, I was not made of sugar and spice and/or anything or everything nice. Instead, I was composed of Sweet ‘n’ Low, Chocks Chewables or Pez (the tests were inconclusive), and something akin to “nice” but decidedly less cloying.
  3. There is a 100% chance that I will audibly cringe upon seeing the word “naked” spelled “nekkid”.
  4. My left hand is made entirely of marzipan, and not halvah, as was originally thought.
  5. My liver will secrete a liter of bile instantaneously if anyone tells me, or I just happen to overhear someone say, “I’m really just a big kid, myself.”
  6. If an occasion should arise where I am handed a hammer, I will not hammer in the morning. I will also not do so in the evening, and certainly not all over this, or any other, land.
  7. When at a restaurant, if I go to the ladies room before the food arrives, there is a 92% chance that when I return, my plate will be waiting for me.
  8. There is, indeed, an apple tree growing in my stomach. The apples are, appropriately enough, tart.
  9. My Papa was, is, and always will be a rolling stone. And, as such, it should be noted that, true to his non-conformist nature, he refuses to gather moss. So don’t even bother asking him to do so.
  10. I have three hours to live (and I received the test results 95 minutes ago).

My mamacita wants me to knock wood, but really, what good will come of it?
Pass me my pants, please. (Black, size 2, low-rider, flare-leg … Thank you.)
Zei gezunt!