Robert Robus on pie

My sentiments on pie are precisely the same as the next man's. Of course, in this case, the "next man" is my new friend, Tartar. Tartar has quite a predilection for these species of fruit-filled pastry; in fact, he eats them almost constantly. And although I, Robert Robus, like pie precisely as much as my friend Tartar, I am not able nearly as often to indulge these sentiments, due to a congenital fear of clogging an artery, and to doctor's strict orders. My doctor, in fact, has installed cameras throughout my abode (as well as an electrode on my chest) in order that, in case he catch me eating a pie, he may administer a severe electrical shock.

And, my! Look, Tartar: there on the counter now sits a delectable-appearing apple pie, courtesy of the oven and of my favorite pastry-chef, Mrs. Smith! And, oh, what torture: to be able to lay eyes upon a delectable-appearing (and furthermore, delectable-smelling) pastry, and not to be sanctioned to devour! This is worse than the most excruciating mode of torment ever conceivable in the mind of the confounded Satan himself! Of course, the only thing worse than espying a pastry which one is not sanctioned to polish off is to watch someone else eat said pastry. Luckily, dear readers, that does not seem to be in the cards, and. . .

What? What's that, Tartar? You wish to consume said pastry? But, Tartar, I am your most vaunted companion; and you are aware--are you not?--that my physician has installed cameras and an electrode in these quarters in order expressly to prevent my consumption of such pastries. And you must be aware, furthermore, that it would be a most excruciating species of pure dysphoria which I would experience were I to watch you devour that pastry which steams so deliciously on the aforementioned counter. What is your line of thinking here, Tartar? What can this all mean?

What, Tartar? You say that if I don't wish to watch you devour said pastry, I should quite swiftly cover my eyes with my hands? Why, that is hardly the response I, Robert Robus, endeavoured to elicit! And ho! It appears that you are currently dashing toward the counter in order to snarf said pastry down your gullet! Oh, no, Joe: it cannot be! Say that it be not so, thou cruel foe! Yet, lo: after all my lofty (and, may I add, extremely convincing) rhetoric, it appears that you have elected to flout such cogent speech--you really are consuming said pastry! --Why, you scoundrel! I'll get you for this! I'll eat mints--lots of mints--and right in your face, too! And then, owing to the fact that you're short, I shall hold them high in the air, and make you jump for them--and you still won't be able to get them, you understand? Tartar, you cruel imp, I shall eat mints in the vicinity of your green-tinged visage at once! Just allow me to go to the cupboard, and. . .ow! The doctor is shocking me! The doctor is shocking me! But I have not just eaten pie, I say to the cameras: I have not just eaten pie! OW! OW! OW!

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
Upon further investigation, it has been revealed that Dr. "David McGillicuddy" is actually Snork McGee, a local sociopath who habitually poses as various lofty professional personages for a small fee. Tartar Smith, it appears, was more than willing to shell out said fee for the sake of a little practical joke on his companion, Robert Robus--to whose blog, by the way, readers are advised to return promptly for more ridiculous narratives, as well as further highfalutin commentary, on many engrossing and utterly ineluctable subjects.