Looks like he's writing some EDGAR ALLEN PROSE!

It has come to my attention that there appears to be what can only be considered a conspiracy afoot to bring essential and unjustified harm to me well being and peace-of-mind.

Exactly who, or why, such an undertaking should have been put into action is beyond my capacity for comprehension. I am, to all degrees of cognitive analysis I can avail myself of, a reasonable fellow; good humored, balanced of temprament, and a friend to all who enjoy the bracing impact of open-minded discourse and brisk conversation.

And so, who — or more properly — whom would take the time to befoul my serene procession through the allotted hour of comestible imbibation escapes my ability to resolve the conundrum of the mastermind or conspiritorial cabal who have perpetrated this deed.

Nonetheless, the evidence is clear and irrefutable — I most assuredly ordered my hamburger sans brined cucumbrances. And yet, settling there betwixt the bun and burger, blaring their unwanted presence plain as day there sit two becursed disks of green horror.

Pickles.

Pickles upon my burger.

This insult will not stand.

Satisfaction must be mine!

Also, there is too much ice in my beverage.