One day, Bob woke up emphatically. Oops. I mean, ! He was bound and gagged, but that's another story. After Bob untied himself, he was bound and determined to actualize his dream of the ideal day.

"Actually," Bob ized to himself, "I'm not exactly sure where I put all my ideals."

Bob looked under the sink. Bob looked on top of his scale. Bob looked through every channel on the television. Bob's ideals were nowhere to be found. He was at the crossroads of a town called Loss. And it was raining. And his feet hurt.

What struck Bob at this moment were thousands of minute particles of sand, human slough, and doughnut pheromones floating through the air with nary a care in the world.

Suddenly, Bob remembered something. After finishing college he had sold off many sundry items to The Establishment to help cover his moving costs. Using his trusty telephonematic listening/speaking device, Bob rang up his account manager at The Establishment.

"Hold, please," spoke the ominously even-tenored voice.

Bob held, as it turned out, on for the ride of his life through a tour de force tour of the entire catalogue of Kenny G's masterworks. It was, as mentioned above, a ride, not unlike a roller coaster with the dizzying mediums and the frightening middlings which course, not unlike a roller coaster in a tunnel, through the smooth jazz canon.

Bob tried to go with the flow and get his smooth groove going, oh yeah, but the music was interrupted at twelve second intervals by the rayon-smooth voice reminding Bob to, and I quote, "Hold, please."

"If these be answers," quoth Bob, "then I just have to hold on a bit longer."

Thus, holding with all his might, possibility, and opportunity Bob took it, the good lord willing, one day at a time, just happy to be there.

Bob was a very articulate young man; a real team player; a pleasure to coach and manipulate.