WASHINGTON (Daily Rhyme)- Today the Consumer Product Safety Commission launched an avalanche of recalls that's tying tongues as well as hands across the nation. Flailing the fickle federal finger of fate, the faultfinding fellows are firmly focused on fixing flaws for future friends and families.
Breaching the bureaucratic brouhaha, reminiscent of recent ruckuses, the sanctimonious safety sheriffs have set their sights on simple stuff, singling out several seemingly self-sustaining standards. Perish the prospect of pampering parents purchasing perambulators perfect for parading pretty princesses or papas' proud progeny. Cautioned by a chemical combination of concoctions created in chassis construction, rubber baby buggy bumpers are being recalled…REALLY!
Owners are offered the options of replacement, reimbursement or repair. Replacement requires removal of the rebounding reflector and reinstallation of reliable rust-proof reinforcing rails. Prepaid postage is provided for patrons preferring prompt processing.
Major manufacturers are murmuring, mulling the millions they'll be making, the magic mystifying their maniacal minds.
Gazillions of garden growers are glowering, greatly galled by the goofy goings-on. Evidently, every element of environmental endeavors is earmarked for exacerbation. Vegetable vendor villains are very visible in this verifiably vast vindictive vendetta. Packaging products are particularly persecuted, pointedly provoking providers and prompting prospective procurers to preclude purchases. Pickled peppers are particularly in peril. Peter Piper is perplexed. After every peck of pickled peppers he picks, he paces and ponders a place to put his precious prizes. Purportedly, the paper products that permeate the pecks that Peter Piper pays for to pack his pickled peppers in are poisonous. Says Peter Piper, "it's a pity, purely pathetic...profits plunging! Pardon me while I puke!"
Budding businesses are being bombarded by blatant barrages blamed on blocking beachside buying. Sally Sullivan, stricken, sits sadly in the sun-streaked shade, struggling to survive in the seashore setting. It seems that the sand on which she's sitting is soiled, and samples studied show signs of something sinister. So, the sand is sacked and sent somewhere to be subjected to several sessions of scientifically sanctioned sanitation, subsequently scattered, strewn and sprinkled back onto the surfaces of the surfs from which it was snatched. So, if you should stroll serenely to the seaside, suffice it to say, you shan't see Sally selling seashells on the seashore, souvenir seekers. Surely!
So, as the story goes, so does this one. Try to tune in tomorrow to taste a twice-twisted tale tailored to truly test your tired tongue's tenacity. Ta-ta!