The Lostest Human Person on the Face of the Earth

Lost. Like an old rag dumped into the phantom tube of the infinite zone. I was lost. Wandering. Like a rag-draped old three-legged mule in the gritty endless ocean of the moon desert. For nigh on several months I have been the lostest person in the history of time. Loster than Benny Hinn's anointed satchel of power. Loster than Terrence Trent D'Arby's favorite purple felt hat. Loster than The Lost Saucer! I was the lostest object in the entire span of the macroverse. I was lost.

It all happened so mysteriously, and it is all Wikipedia's fault. For Carbindle's sake, I only went there to look up rare disorders and obsure cultural references. Instead, I found myself wandering in the myriad multi-trillion labyrinths of rawest knowledge. I turned left. There before me, everything I could ever want to know about extremophiles living in the butt crack of Zeus. I quickly turned right! Before me, copious paragraphs of wax-thick prose detailing Dr. John Bowlby's loss of pants during the Oxford debates of 1963 on the nature of war and human drippings. I scrambled up a ladder, hoping to escape the limitless parade of mind butter. Instead, I had clambered in the wisdom-cube of physisorption and Cyclic nucleotide-gated ion channels.

All about me, knowledge, factoids, rotting old rancid trivia, bloated droplet-oozing bags of ideas.

I screamed! Danny Devito's middle name is Michael! Sealand is the smallest nation in the world! James "Scotty" Doohan invented the Klingon language! You can survive in the vacuum of space if you are there for less than 90 seconds! Wigan pit brow girls scandalized Victorian society by wearing pants! Save me from this uncontainable manure flood of wisdom! Save me!

Only when I had read everything and learned all that there is to learn did I escape Wikipedia, and now I am free. Wiser in useless information than a hundred billion Mr. Miyagis, I have returned to the Dictionary, and now, my physical body having been transformed from flesh into an information pattern, I return to you, luscious ones. The time for knowing is upon you like a writhing oiled-up Mark Northover on a baked potato.

You are not prepared.