Hi george. You don't have to take it back. It's a valid criticism. The odd time I get it right and that is utterly delightful. But more often it's like that dream, that one we've all had, where we are the Maharishi's concubine and we find our thighs as nimble and pretty as a congealing lake of spaghetti. You see what I mean?
I listened to an audio recording recently of a range of Twain's work from early to very late in life. I probably shouldn't have done that. I felt radiantly inspired. I thought I was. I stripped off all my clothes and went dancing in the back yard at dusk under a quarter moon. Jane opened the door and pointed out that perhaps I was trying to commit suicide by West Nile virus. Then she mentioned something about my 64 year old thighs.
We are all born lacking something, yes, that is so. Take Mitt Romney. It doesn't fall to me to presume what that thing might be which ought to be there but is not there at all and apparently never even passed through town on the way somewhere else such that Mitt might have got some brief sniff of the thing like one can on a visit to a Greyhound bus depot yet we all note the absence of it.
On politics I won't speak tonight. I'm too tired. Or I'm in the introductory phase of a viral visitation. You'd think there'd be a 50/50 chance one would get bitten by a virus from the east side of the bloody Nile.