Ok, so there was this factory out on the outskirts of town. A whimsy factory, to be specific. All the workers at the whimsy factory clocked in simply whenever. Also, to say they clocked in was kind of a misnomer, because there wasn’t a clock there. This whimsy factory specialized in all things whimsical. For the most part, it went pretty well. As long as they were well-oiled and struck with hammers at odd intervals, the whimsy machines kept chugging along, chunking out raw whimsy that could then be molded or sculpted into whimsical contraptions and hats. The townsfolk were a little skeptical of all that whimsy. There were even some who occasionally protested about “whimsy pollution.” Who knows what all that whimsy will do to our children, they screamed oh so seriously, waving their deliberately stenciled signs (black on white cardstock, Times New Roman). Their children stood behind them silently in black suits and dresses. Other townsfolk just rolled their eyes at them as if to say (and sometimes they actually did) “Who has that much spare time? That they can go out and protest whimsy?” One day, a crazed anti-whimsier injected some pure tragedy into the whimsy machines at the whimsy factory. What a bummer! the workers cried. Our whimsy machines only produce saddables now! The workers were determined, but it took them a while to clean up that mess. Meanwhile, some children played and others stared sadly at their multiplication tables made out of saddable blocks.
Moral: It’s hard to be whimsical when you’re sad.