From: nospamum@radix.net (Mumthra)

Subject: Re: Gone Too Metaphar

Date: 14 May 1999 00:00:00 GMT

Reply-To: nospamum@radix.net

Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free

 

On Thu, 13 May 1999 22:02:09 GMT, bugToothpaste@scooter.net (Rev.

Barking Lunchbox) wrote:

 

:(anyway, thass the SPIRIT)

 

Here, Sir, have smores!

 

A thoroughly unremarkable and big blank white sheet of a morning was

had here. It was a day to ride to the school in pajamas, imitating an

overnight field trip gone terribly wrong. Sparky opined that a push

lawn mower COULD be as loud as a motorized one IF nobody oiled it for

a long, long time. This was what could be taken for a desperate

parting shot that didn't hit entirely as she intended but didn't miss

the bullseye in the china shop as much as she thought EITHER. It was

an extremely funny way to say goodbye, almost as good as falling out

of car and THEN saying, "I'll just get out here."

 

Spunky began to plead and beg like an inspired and petulant

photographer dealing with a deaf model in a cramped space. She JUST

PULEEZ wanted to have nail polish (she says it nail pawlish, and I've

considered correcting her and telling her to say nail Polish but have

been saving that for a special occasional chore).

 

I told her to PULEEZ WAIT while I finished getting presentable clothes

on myself, but apparently I took too long with the various zipping and

buttoning and preening, but I still would swear that I didn't take as

long as an overpaid hooker on the wrong side of the tractor. While I

was at it, she retrieved and opened a bottle of Raisin #330 colored

polish, possibly thinking that she was HEPPING.

 

When I appeared, I found Bo clutching the bottle upside down over a

big puddle of Fast-Dry Nail Enamel. Raisin #330 is not the color of

any raisins I ever saw, but it could be the color of raisins in the

sun under rose-colored glass eyes. It's more of a plum color or maybe

what some people call dusty rose that's been dusted off and made

shinier and darker than almost anything you'd want to find on your

beige carpet. That is to say that it stuck out like a sore thumbprint

made by a really huge and bloody thumb that had had a chance to drip a

little hither and there.

 

I went right to work without a minute to loose, racing against the

shock of the mightiest forces of fast-dry enamel, sprinting toward the

trill of victory with a dose of its own medicine: nail polish remover.

I blotted and rubbed, sprinkled and scrubbed, frenzied like a freshman

who was feeling not-so-fresh at the eleventh hour of no return at the

library.

 

All to Noah veil I labored under my delusions of grand floor. It was

reduced to a paler shade of pink, but still my dining room has the

aura of a crime scene, minus the yellow tape, cigar-smoking detectives

and photo flash record making, chalk outlines, fingerprint powder,

mysteriously smoky flashlight beams, and authoritative Black Man

saying, "Something bad happened here."

 

Other than that, boy howdy, it hits the bill right where it lives.

 

 

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