Please box up my bicycle shorts, barbeque tongs, and New Yorkers, and put it all on your doorstep. I’ll come by during the day to pick it up. You’d better not be home. I’ll be looking for your rust-bucket car parked around the corner. I know you that well by now. Also, turn off your neighbor’s surveillance camera. I’ll drop the key in the pool out front. Maybe it’s your turn to rummage around in that muck you call a “fish pond” for a change. And maybe you’ll find something else interesting down there. Maybe something sharp and pointy. And maybe your punctured hand will blow up like a balloon and you won’t be able to install cable boxes for three months. Because maybe it’s high time someone called you “Fatty Hand” for a change.
I have purchased a low-water-content, spiral-cut ham, which should be arriving at your home sometime later this week. I got it online, and it was no bargain. It’s not for you. It’s for the dogs. They know what’s really going on. They’ve heard the arguments and have seen the tears that lasted into the wee morning hours. They put the pieces together, despite your fabrications.
Be sure to tell them the ham is from me.
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