Looming Constitutional Crisis?

Don your Fro Wig, prance off to the Stevie Nicks Convention, and try your damndest to pass yourself off as Lindsey Buckingham's Id come to life.

Impossible you say?

Look into the Tambourine Satchel and Tell me what the Jingley Bits foretell.

They don't make for the Finest in Oracley Truthiness...but it sure beats smearing goat guts across a burlap covered card table and trying to divine the future, braille-style, with your fingers rummaging through the visceral lumps thereupon.

Which brings to mind the time my father, Jim the Sicilian, killed a Bat (that had found access to the inner sanctum of his Master Bedroom) with his Bare (and Bear-ish) Hands and, shortly thereafter, declared with a certainty most convincing that Man would one day invent shoes that required no laces.

And the Modern Day Cobbler Industry did Splurtch Forth Velcro Laden Footwear for the Masses to don without their common everyday Misgivings of Stubby Over-engorged Finger Niblets getting in the Way of Swanky Spats classing up their Fashionista Desires.

It's not like a Fellow's ever Dared to affix an overcooked wurst to their collar and call it an ascot...for this we can all agree on; although, perhaps, in our eager youthfullness, we've bounced a frank slice or three from our respective Spaghetti-O's Chug-a-Lunch down the front of our Grade School t-shirts...creating a Red Sauce/Weiner Juice Map of Shame leading to our Not Laps of Luxury.

Sad, really.

T
(this 2 minute writing exercise was brought to you by the Letter Yum and the Number Ouch)