Three forces conspired to drag me from the breezy beachhead encampment i have occupied since our arrival here in the sun soaked lands of saute'd N'Yawkers. First came hordes of fearsome dark clouds from the west. Grim and laden with malice they swept over bay and the flimsy rows of homes between and reminded me that a beach is an awfully foolish place to tempt a storm. So with perhaps more caution than valor i retreated to the relative safety of the house. Frickens are big chickens.
There, in the cool but unreliable comfort of the air conditioning, i encountered the second force to move me heavenward. More of a shock than a relentless storm. More thunderbolt than wind. More fart than food poisoning. i was eating my lunch and wishing for bacon when it hit me. No, not food poisoning. The nasty realization that i was nearly done my thousand page book! With two more days of beach bummery ahead of me, this would be a tragedy! i might be forced into desperate action! To borrow one of the house books which i may not be able to finish (a small blessing since the vast majority seem to be romance novels.) But unless the novel be fetid drumfish then it is abhorrent to me not to finish it and i've even choked down my share of rotting fishflesh. My only other option would be to go get another book but that presented an even more abominable choice: a quest into Rehoboth! While certainly a step up from its vile cousin city Wildwood. They are of the same ilk and bear no joy for a fricken for whom filth, fools and frivolous frittering are fiends most foul. What loathsome lout designs a tourist city in a America with no parking? It boggles the imagination and that is but the beginnings of it's bilious boorishness.
No, drastic measures must be taken! i would have to ration my reading time. But what must i do instead? This is where the third force came. As is sometimes my habit, i looked over my blog. As a rooster inspects his hens to see how their getting along. In this way i decide whether i've been remiss in my writings. Usually i find there is a shortfall in the storehouse. Not much fodder for the flock. This is ordinarily the result of two other shortages: time and shmarts. But today i found, not a shortfall, but a windfall! Like a storm at sea that washed up all manner of refuse i found the Coop littered with lines, polluted with poesy, varnished with verse! Where had all these poems come from? Nearly a whole month's worth of it?! Was i going soft? Was there nothing to rail at? No humorous anecdotes to stretch into longwinded stories with no point? No aimless alliterations to assmeble? As i pondered these questions the answer rose like an angel from her nap...
nope. But that's never stopped you before.