The point of this story is too write bad, long sentences. I hope it's funny and enjoyable (it should be) but don't expect award-winning prose.
The Modern Fable of Jim
Jim, much like a dragon foolishly holding his fiery breath so long that his saliva was boiling like my mother's good old chicken soup when, each week, she thoughtlessly forgot to turn off the stove until after we'd burnt through the pot, set off the neighbor's smoke alarm and lost all of the soup through the wooden floor, which didn't taste very good anyway because my mother couldn't cook for beans, futilely gasped for air and promptly lit another cigarette. It was his third—not counting the one he'd puffed during the lunch break when the sun had been urinating UV rays onto the endless fields of dainty flowers and he'd been inside smoking and feeling the encroaching lung cancer—cigarette. A little voice, which was squeaky like a toy mouse when it's stepped on by the dog's muddy feet after a long storm in which the dog's been playing, in Jim's head commanded him to stop, like common sense has bombarded George W. Bush. Of course, neither party listens to common sense, as they're too high up in society for that, proverbial Mary Poppins umbrellas.
The next moment, when Jim's ugly (ugly like the disembodied head of a long since dead simpleton Oklahoman as opposed to ugly like the mystery meat which rains down on trays from the glorious heavens of the lunch lady's ladle) boss came in and reprimanded him with a simple, "Oh my, what the heck are you doing you lazy twit? Now I'll give you a lecture on the effects of smoking and the terror of lung cancer before I allow you to get back to work," Jim shrugged and ran from his madhouse of a boss. Jim ran for the window, which represented freedom to him; freedom like the ability to mix condiments from seven different brands, some of which may contribute to presidential campaigns.
Soon, Jim was plummeting past the offices on the lower floors and heading towards the ground at a speed not unlike that attained when a car is accelerated up 'til the point where its axels are in danger of splitting and the old lady sitting inside is in danger of combustion and the deftly tied beach chairs, hair care items, groceries and seventy year old mystery novels tied on top are in danger of springing loose from the bonds which attach them to the car. Jim was not lucky and although it is therefore fortunate that he never ventured into a casino like his foolish brother Ray did that one time when he lost all of his money and then crashed his car on the way home, and because Ray didn't switch over to Geico, he was forced to pawn everything he owned, including his vintage 1908 bottle of Cream Red Concord wine straight from the vineyards of early twentieth century Italy, it was unfortunate as Jim landed in an extremely hard piece of cement and promptly smoked another cigarette.
His employer commented on the tragedy, saying "I hate that lazy bum," and shaking his fist threateningly; the modern bonds between employee and employer continue to amaze me.