All year we have been sending out the better salamander: boxed and festively wrapped - a bursting balloon of a pleasantry. There is none better to be had. You really have to dutifully receive one to know the sultry, sounding length of the masturbatory joy embedded in the giving.
Our workers are our great consuming hiss of a finely cut machine. They are better people here than when they are secluded with their families. This product and its purpose ennobles them, and you can see their gargantuan and inflexible talent alive in each of our better salamanders. At no other time can they exhibit such an elevating talent. Outside of our factory, these edged workers are fiercely two dimensional, peaceably constrained only by religion and sex. Their children are the garbled accidents of piss-blue and barbed-brail urges; their gods leave footprints and smear things with their fingers. Really, they are not much to think about. Yet we provide them a saving employment, and that is when the magic happens.
And, with this year's production of the better salamander having been swept up by a public who can eat even the bones, if failing the digestion of them, we look - like a woman chained naked to her half male kidnapper's silk sheeted bed - forward. New plans and new designs and new engineering that will make the better salamander more exactly the same again every year: a secret advance, a rumored improvement, a case for the new model. In security, we check our workers outerwear pockets for smuggled better salamanders: leave them with turned out, lint free sacks dangling like flags of distinction; and then send them home to spend their idle time as brutes and ragamuffins, pederasts and spouse-beaters, onanists and dramatists. Do not worry: when they come back we will fill them once more - like a scarecrow left too long leaking straw in a generation's parking lot - with renewed servility; new dog-faced, near drug-induced routine; and a manikin's finely imagined aggression for work: an understanding that they must make the better salamander; that it is the better salamander that gives rise to their foible, ferrous self-worth and meaning; voice to their wonderfully ill-gotten joy of having a tin place in this, our process.
It would be otherwise if they had organization, concerns, perhaps even a union. No good can come of this story unless that is certain. No union, nor concerns, no organization. We treat our workers like the under-privileged brethren they would be if they were of our species. We provide this place for their ultimate civilization, for the transubstantiation of their idleness into production of the better salamander. Understand it like a pheromone. Understand it like the rape of a stone statue. Our largesse, our production, our service. It is only for these reasons that you have your magnificently cloud-grappling better salamander, and yet, languorously, can eat the product, too.
Remember us in your time of charity and gain. Exult in your competitive use of the better salamander. Be safe through believing. Buy again in the coming year.