While updating my back-to-school fall fashions at the Goodwill I felt an urgent ESP distress call emanating from the book section and in particularly the wall of Britannica. The message faint, the voice distinct, Southern and cultured, a muffled mutter of HELP. My psychic powers tuned toward the volume of B.
When opening the book a great gush of wind circled with a familiar fragrance of musty mold and mysterious music surrounded me, just like in the movies. Maybe the music was from the adjacent eight track department and maybe the must and mold was from the heaping piles of unwashed clothing, one will never truly know. Recovering my senses, I noticed a photograph had fallen from the pages and was now lying on the floor.
Who is this genie imprisoned in Britannica-B?
Bewigged exquisitely in a shampoo set of pure white snow. Befrocked in regal couture that could only have been magically stitched by the nimble fingers of Laura Ashley. Bejewelled in enormous diamonds mined from the deepest depths of African volcanoes. Befriended by a befitting buffoon a jolly jester clad in a mulberry sport coat. Befeasting from a banquet beset by the finest brown bagged liquors.
Alas the begenie seems only capable of conjuring wishes from the confines of the Goodwill.