A Parable, or to put it in other letters, A Bear Pal, A Pale Bra, and A Lab Pear!

Intriguingly enough, the rash on his bottom formed the face of Lolita Fondue--TEN YEARS BEFORE LOLITA FONDUE WAS EVEN BORN!
        
 "How did he know this?" asks the non-complacent reader.
Congratulations, non-complacent reader!  You just asked the money question, baby!
Lets backtrack a bit in time.
Champ Anaximander was born in the sloven hovel of Pittsburgh in the year 1954, a year that will always be remembered for its utterly Fantastic! grapevine yield, and the fact that at least one person was born on each day of the year, a feat nigh unrivaled throughout history.
This "setting of birth," as some call it, led unopposedly to its only natural and reasonable conclusion: Anaximander developed into an old Asian man who had a habit of using his copy machine to scan various body parts--body parts whose ranks just so happened to include his buttocks.
And just like that, we're back in the present, back in good old 1999.
Our man Champ has just ridden his leaf-blower powered hover-chair back to his house and is going upstairs to take a quick, and may I say, very sexy, bath when, oh, whats this?  It seems that our discerning reader has a few more things to point out!  We would be very happy to hear them you omnipotent being, you!
          "I should hope so." Says our favorite contributer, quite unbearably smugly, to be brutally honest.
          "First of all," continues this font of wisdom, "let me be the first to point out that when there are around seven billion people in the world, it is almost impossible to not have a birthday on each day of the year."
Our astute peruser continues. 
          "And second!  Riding a chair powered by any mass-produced leaf-blower is physically, and let me repeat this, physically, NOT POSSIBLE!  There just isn't enough power to create the energy to beat out the force of gravity.  And don't get me started on the issue of balance."
Well thanks for that advice!
Now, back to the story in progress.
Champ is rubbing soap into the folds of his wrinkled old man skin when...Ah gosh darn it!  Forget about it!  This story is over.  There's nothing that can be done in that overwhelming tsunami of cold, hard, logical, reason.  I'm done.  It's done.  We're done.  Hopefully by next time I'll have figured out how to make my stories follow Newton's laws at the least.  Thank you, insightful reader.  You have opened my eyes.