Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

I bought this gnome originally to put in my garden at work, but as soon as the package arrived, I knew something was different. It radiated a faint energy and visibly glowed around the borders of the box in a hazy effervescent kind of way, like bio-luminescent bacteria on a sandy South-East Asian beach. The box opened on its own the moment that my hands touched the package. With a gust of wind, the flaps flipped out, and out springs my new best friend. Diesel and I are inseparable. We cook together. We walk together. We work together. He asks me to tell him my secrets. I tell him, "No, Diesel. We are at a funeral," but he persists. He pitches a fit. He screams. I scream. Then we both cry. God, we cry so much, and we drink each other's tears. At night, I feel his gnomish gaze pierce through the back of my skull as I sleep, because if I face him, his hot breaths against my nose keeps me awake. I haven't had a quality night's sleep in nearly half a year. When I can sleep (usually in brief micro-naps while driving to and from work), my dreams are filled with psychedelic fractals and strange beasts beyond human description. "What are these dreams? What do they mean? Why can't I taste anything anymore?" I ask on a near daily basis, but all he will do is merrily dance classic Irish jigs in reply. He is partial to the dance pattern for the the 1895 classic Waltzing Matilda, though that is admittedly an Australian tune. "Stop dancing! For the love of god, stop dancing, you freak! I want to taste again." Diesel produces two more blue birds (like the one's accurately depicted in the listing) from the ether, and juggles them wordlessly. "Listen to me, you pointy hatted ghoul," I say, whacking him off the keys of my grandmama's antique piano, "Why can't I taste anymore? Everything feels like ashes in my mouth. My teeth are rotting in their sockets. With every beat, my heart feels like it is being sliced by daggers of betrayal. E tu, Brute? E tu?" Diesel says nothing, and the only option I have left is to burn down my entire estate. The gardens, the solarium, the vast halls filled with tanks containing exotic, aquatic life forms, the library (which also holds more of my exotic fish), the conservatory, the BATHROOM: gone. All gone; all my fish, boiled alive. All of my abode reduced to smoldering splinters. The blaze takes days to burn to dust, and I pick up the ash and scoop it into my mouth as a ritualistic goodbye to the man who changed my life. I'll miss you, old friend. We will always have Paris. "He sang as he watched and waited 'till his Billy boiled. You'll come a'waltzing Matilda with me."