Broke: I don't need an editor.
Woke: In my self-insert, 500 page novelization of the "Oh, Fudge" Keebler Cookies commercial from 1980, the main character, me, godmodes the spelling of his memoir so hard that his editor cannot help but bow in reverence 'fore the first manuscript. "O' fudge, o' fudge", cavorting 'round the sacred object goes he, "'Tis perfect, I cannot make it any better!" The tumultuous, heavenly spheres have so aligned that this prophetic work and the book you are enjoying now, dear reader, have clinked into lockstep, completely parallel between the realms of make-believe and truth. What sits before you, then, is a negative imprint of a text so radiant, it could only exist in the realm of platonic ideals. You may screw your face up when encountering these so-called "spelling and grammatical errors", but know this... they are the Ying to a hidden Yang, an unspeakable gospel so steeped in precious fudge, that no mere mortal could ever hope to comprehend it.
