In which the Whuppie worries about the observational skills of the next generation.
Pardon me, Charles Toussaint, but did you say that you were moving out of your apartment? The one that (and pardon my French) you dragged my wrinkled ass to when you saw it in the Times, despite all similar-ranged apartments that I had specificially circled for you, and claimed was "the perfect place"? The one that I had to make that ridiculous (yes, I thought it was ridiculous!) door cosy to make sure that your heating bill wouldn't go up rather than find a place with better insulating efficiency? The one that you stay home for every other Thursday evening in order to Pine-Sol the floors because you think the concrete deserves to be piney fresh?! Young man, you've told me piles of hogwash before, but this pretty much TAKES THE CAKE.
I'm saying this as a friend and as a woman who thinks that, unless you've found a beautiful penthouse suite that has suddenly captured your fancy despite all modern logic, that you might have lost all your marbles in one fell swoop: what is the story?!
I knew that, as per my Army chapter's Martin Luther King day tradition, we were going to have a luncheon meeting and afterwards restock the chapter's food bank. Naturally, I had a few of the typical staples (because every food bank needs more creamed corn!), but as I knew we were lacking in some particular staples, I decided to stop by Wal-Mart before going over to Denny's. The ensuing shopping, of course, wasn't too terribly strange, but after the second person asked me where they could get an extension cord, I started to worry.
And then I realized I had chosen this particular day to wear a navy blue polo shirt.
At any rate, onto new business rather than to dwell on the irony of the old: Mr. McLaughlin, although I do expect you to be verily drooping with the jet lag as I write this, I will be holding you to the Metropolitan rendezvous. I have a culture quota to uphold, sir!