I would begin with the customary salutations, reader, but that would only delay the Sublime, which is offered below in the guise of a photo essay.
The story begins on Thursday, when the Unwelcome Visitor and I searched for nothing less than our destiny, as many years ago Jason, son of Aeson, rightful king of Iolcus, searched for the Golden Fleece. Our journey was no less taxing and circuitous than the one endured by that great man of legend and the steadfast crew of his mythical ship, Argo. The evidence of the physical toll the trek exacted on me can be seen in the portrait below, in which I pilot the mythical 1997 Toyota Corolla.
This is the picture of a man at his breaking point.
I snapped. I left my fate in the calloused hands of the gods. With the Visitor shrieking beside me, I closed my eyes, pushed my foot to the floor and my arms had a seizure. Car horns blared and pedestrians dented my car with thuds! and kapows! When I opened my eyes, we were parked at a meter on a street three towns away. By Odin’s raven the meter was already paid. The gods (and their pets) favored us this day.
We exited the vehicle as our hearts beat in unison. We had found that which we had sought, and much more. Our destiny lay before us—that much we expected—but we could not foresee that we would find our true home.
We fit in.
That home bears the name “Pez Museum,” or something. Prepared were we to barter the car, our life savings, our nethers, just to gain entrance for a moment. But it would not be so, for we had come on the one day in the cycle of the moon that the entrance fee was waived.
Providence is shockingly kind.
So that I may give you, the reader, purer, more unadulterated Sublime and also stay true to the form of a photo essay, there shan’t be text anymore, save the occasional caption.
There were a lot more than this, like so many that you'd have to turn your head.
The author will not let a post go by without relating it to base and ball.
I shouldn't have waited to Picture 3 to tell you that you can click to enlarge.
Es ist Zeit für PEZ!
Probably not the most absurd thing Carrie Fisher has signed.
Market research indicates that the kiddies want to customize their Pez, Mr. CEO.
"Chateau de Pez" is the result of a different round of horrible market research.
Tins become dispensers. Technology drives us ever forward. The Sun will still die.
This seems like something hipsters would adorn their room with—ironically of course.
Not for sale 😥
This picture is single-woman Christmas-card material.
That is supposed to be Harry Potter.
To be fair, here is a well-rendered Terminator.
I am pretending.
There were other toys on display, like old-timey Shrinky Dinks.
If America had a worthy rival like Soviet Russia, toys would foster intellectual growth and we wouldn't fucking suck at everything.
Sometimes the quality control for toys went overboard, and we end up with banned crayons, which disgusts some people.
The Missing Pez, a.k.a. someone has more free time than me.
My mom never bought me Lincoln Logs even though I asked. Sure, now I understand that I can't always get things I want, but at what cost, Mom? AT WHAT COST?
The toys of old might as well have been packaged with an application to engineering school.
She sees herself in the dolls, and understands the Cosmos.
Meanwhile, he is saddened by the father-sized hole in his heart. (Note: Not really.)
Old-timey kids enjoyed a well-placed dookie in their toys. We are all dookie brethren.
The search for the world's largest Pez dispenser begins here.
This one won't even fit on the screen.
Landscape won't work either.
So this one is pretty large, but we found an ever bigger one.
Awww happy ending; the world is half-full. (Note: The old man running the place got us to smile by saying, "We're not gonna say cheese because we're gonna say PEEEEEEZ!")
Post Script - We brought home three of the main characters from The Dark Knight to forever remind us of the Pez Museum.