Family Comes First.

 

My family and I have always made it a priority to take great care as we walk through the seventy-one pre-nescient fields which border our proximity to a vastly overblown urban conglomerate. This is what allows us to extoll great fear in situations where the discomfort level is mild, if that. Our son, Harvey Jr. will spend isolated moments slicking back his hair before making his exit for a single-file affair. The Regents have expressed concern that he might talk out of class, even as his chance to outwit a community enemy takes a beating on the open market of transparently false option-huggers. Their odor generally precedes them by a mile or more, and by the time Little Harvey has scraped his shield clean off a local roof, a steel-dyed zinc marker is apt to be placed directly in his line of sight. Even if no one of consequence shows up at our annual buffet, some lucky numbnuts could be looking at a major two-figure settlement. And, that's before we add in the taped vespers, with all that implies.

I think I might just stand there in my chapel tunic and call out one or two names which have appeared erroneously in my lockbox back at the ranch. She will testify that I balefully restricted myself to staring directly, and with zero provocation, at her somewhat ordinary feet. Further, she will be tasked with finding a rental property near an impassable pond in the Southern New Hampshire exclusion zone. There I will present to her surviving relatives a reflective bauble which was hand-crafted during an Estonian prison riot in the late 1950s. As we near the completion of the preliminaries, I'll beg off any additional involvement so that I might spend more time looking into secret agreements among disaffected family members of former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor. You have my word that I will do my best to fend off any snarling attacks on my manboobs. No one ever said that there wouldn't a price to be paid. But I just did. Sue me.

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