The Greengrocer washed his hands in cabbage juice every morning; It gave his skin that crisp yet supple flavour one looks for in a father figure. He had hoped this would improve his, frankly, dismal yam sales, but alas it only hastened his metamorphosis into "that woman."
You know the one.
Regardless, he clung to the hope of better days, neglecting his duty to open the store from 6 AM as advertised (which as we all know is the time of the day at which yam desirability reaches its peak), committing instead to his diurnal ritual of juice and blood (that is, if you consider cabbage juice blood, which I do not).
By the time the store opened, around a quarter past eight, the crowds of salivating, yam-starved businessmen had moved on, pulled from their tuber-derived reverie and thrust nose-first into their interminable corporate existence, fated to let another cursed, yam-less day pass them by, having resigned themselves to their roles as mindless, potassium-deficient cogs in society's wristwatch.
Here ends the lesson.