Robert Robus on oranges

As the better part of my readers must surely be aware, I flew down to Los Angeles this past Thursday for an interview with Benson Mooney, head announcer supreme for KLDA Radio. And although said interview went spectacular at first, it appears to have ended poorly: for Mr. Mooney's security thugs tossed me from the studio soon after I interrupted a Crocodile C piece by shouting over the microphone, "You cannot do this to me, you tyrants: for I am Robert Robus, the world's most fecund comedic genius!"

Despite my wounded dignity, as well as several contusions in regions to which I would consider it a decided breach of decorum even to refer, I am, in essence, fine. And, as such, my attractive female attendant Ayvana is here with me today to aid yours truly in demonstrating just how wonderful oranges can be. Isn't that right, Ayvana?

Ayvana, clad in a low-cut white tank top and scant orange athletic shorts and holding a bucket filled to the brim with large oranges, nods plethorially.

Yes, by my and many other accounts, oranges are the supreme citrus fruit in the history of the world. They have been eaten in trains and on planes; they have been consumed in Spain and in lanes; they have been snarfed in Hereford, Hartford and Hampshire; and, most important, I, Robert Robus (as well as my good friend Tartar) eat them almost constantly. People all over the world and throughout time have been drawn to the orange's unsurpassable sweet flavour and intriguing texture. In fact, I (Robert Robus) would go so far as to say that they are the Crocodile C of all things fructiferous.

Ayvana nods again, moans, "Oh, yes, Robert! You are so right!" Robert runs his fingers through Ayvana's ample tresses.

By the way, dear readers: Before I finish this discourse, allow me to ajoute (or, if you prefer, add) that this post bears no relation at all to what transpired in any previous entries. Instead, it should be construed as an isolated entry within the spacious and hallowed annals of this protracted, enormous blog which bears the prestigious and vaunted stamp of I, Robert Robus, Esq. Again, I wish to stress that this entry bears no relation, in any capacity, to my recent spat with reputed LA radio personality Benson Mooney. No relation at all.

Robert undertakes to french Ayvana. The latter spills bucket of oranges onto the ground, causing aforementioned luscious fruits to spill onto lush grass upon which content of post has transpired. Robus withdraws; screams "The Crocodile C of citrus, ya hear?"; and soon afterward returns to frenching the attendant.