My Boyhood on the Southern Plateau.

The standard pile is obscured in this photo, but rest assured it is there.

The standard pile is one that measures three 
and one half cubits by four oblong terrasines 
in width. In summertime the dimensions alter 
just slightly but you might not notice if your 
familiarity has taken a nosedive. We only say 
this as a warning to the chronically unprepared, 
which might even include admitted child prosecutors.

Our evening bell, we can be forgiven for telling you, is now a blank to all but the most blameworthy, and the breath is known to singe on contact. If you can imagine a dog's leg encased in amber (at a museum, say) then you have striven far enough in your efforts to earn the plaudits of the typically well turned-out young woman-about-town. But it would be wise to exercise extreme caution when mentioning any confidential relationships you may have with Connecticut Law Enforcement as this will only make my case stronger when I sue the shit out of you for (figuratively) eating my brain.

Why has it come to this?, you might ask. Well, for one, at your last picnic the brim of my all-time favourite hat sustained a major soilage issue. And it was no help at all to see all my efforts at ignominy go up in blame as you waddled into the Port-a-John and emitted (quite audibly, I might add) what turned out to be a disgustingly oblique quasi-prayer/rant directed with a scorching vehemence at Third Father in his time of senescent fejulity.

I can only cringe now when I think back to my boyhood on the Southern Plateau. The oak fields were mine for the taking, and take I did, with gusto! And where am I now? In a two bit, third rate, dead-end, entry-level co-working rig-a-marole without even a pack of gum to my name, but yet with all the gummy residue one could ever hope to avoid in this life or even some other so-called 'life' on another plane of existence.

See where it says "4 days ago"? It's a lie.

Look, this is all as startling to me as it may be to whomever may one fine day read this, perhaps in a moment of uncontainable blist or other such foible. The way I see it, if we can just stick together we might just make it through this thing, come out the other end and wonder what all the fuss was all about, but I doubt it. Why? Because my name isn't Two Ton Tony Tertiglia for nothing, that's why! 

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