Sometimes it's worth it you know, taking pie after pie to the face. All you can see, feel, predict is the next pie in a seemingly unendless line of intellectual lashings. When out of nowhere, somebody gives you a towel, takes you by the hand and says, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

And sometimes you just stand there hip-deep in pie, waiting for some semblence, some indication that this isn't what you were meant for, that this isn't your eternal doom. You've already stretched out your arms reaching out into the unknown, beyond ground zero testing grounds for the new pastry weapon technology, merely hoping for the towel.