Oh, sweet cardboard palm tree!
Which crazed publicist made you?
Six feet tall, you were a beacon in the Toronto Sun city room.
For years, editors walked past The Palm atop my desk.
Probably not in rapture.
I have not forgotten you, dear RattyPalm.
Nor have a decade of Sun staffers, still wondering: WTF?
How does he get away with this crap?
It was a golden era.
There was silly. There was fun.
Okay, boomer.
Bedtime.
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