Last Autumn, as I prepared for our annual trip South, I recalled an argument I'd had with my wife (I thought I knew her well back then, but my back was killing me) about the placement of a small tan box containing three Special Edition Bonded Huntson-Froelich fountain pens in the glove compartment of our remaining vehicle, a gray '92 Ford Escort. She had, in fact, sworn that she had put them there, but I had a strong intuition that she was lying. I contacted Major Donald Kehoe's son Jimmy, a brash 32 year old former doily salesman, to have him effectuate a live-wire colting operation on my wife's de-natured alcohol saleman's father, Herman Mackey. If nothing else this might possibly get through to her and we could recover the pens and I could finally get myself on an even keel once again.
By the time I neared the Route 5 Training Facility I was starting to feel dizzy even though I'd read a newspaper just a few hours prior. When my name was called I stumbled to the rear and demanded to know why certain mistakes were made. I had mandated that a surgical assistant would present phony credentials while I would pretend to loiter in an abandoned Recreation Center. The night before my third vasectomy, while I watched the game with one or two recently indicted abductees, it became apparent that all was not lost, even if the three very special pens, in fact, were. So, I screwed up my courage, donned my finest second hand cardigan, walloped a night watchman just for the heck of it, measured our back yard for a proposed patio enhancement abortion, had a drink, read the Bible, got a boner and went to sleep.
The next morning as I watched my soon-to-be former wife (a convicted plargiarist named Deniece Rumson) do her pathetic yoga routine, an idea for evacuating the non-official cordon near our barn came to me even as my hands seemed somewhat warm. After I called Lou Gosset Jr to inquire about purchasing a mint-green punching bag that he'd put on the market the previous winter, the whole neighborhood became enveloped in a juniper scented icy fog. By lunch I was bushed. After dinner I decided to look into gender reassignment surgery. The following week my accountant's ex-caddy Mark Roper was announced winner of the 'Prick of the Year' Award by the Ghost Pilot Association. All-in-all, one could say something, but it might be a better strategy to seek to appear as if one is about to say something. Once in a while that's the better course.
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