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Once upon a time in an enchanted land known only as Mount Berry, two very bored college students began a campaign of absurdity. Those with conformist minds beware! You will find only confusion within this site.
P.S. Be sure to click on the Custom Page link (in the margin to the left) which will allow you to read the incredible biography of the life of Bob Vega.
Hat Attacks Awkward Teenager
Up, down, up, down, Ron and Duane were transfixed by the graceful moves and the pounding gyrations. Ron couldn’t believe his luck at receiving tickets to the International Trampoline Finals. Of course he invited his best friend Duane to come along.
“Look at them socks!” Duane shouted in sheer delight, as Sergei Moo-goo-gai-pan the reigning champion took to the trampoline.
Ron hushed his friend in awe. “Look!” he exclaimed, “Why, he’s competing in a rather saucy hat!”
Both boys admired the talented athlete’s suave fedora.
“ How do you suppose he keeps that on?” Duane marveled as the awkward pair of teenagers followed the leotard-clad man who was now hurtling higher and higher into the air.
“ Duh, there’s only one good way to keep a hat on when you’re trampolinin,” cried an exasperated Ron as he shoved a pudgy hand into his greasy mullet.
Duane looked on, transfixed, in his shiny Peach 94.9 windbreaker. “Sure beats me.” he replied, between sips of Shasta cola.
Ron gave his friend a withering shocked look. “Jeez Duane, get with it! Every trampoline aficionado knows that the only way to trampoline while hat clad is the ol’ ground weasel in your hat trick.” Duane gaped in a baffled stupor. Sensing his friend’s ignorance in the intricate nature of the sport, Ron continued. “It’s all very simple. First you tape a ground weasel’s hind legs to your hair. Then you let the front legs go free. So, obviously the ground weasel’s thrashing all around, trying to grab on to something, anything.”
“Uh-huh” Duane interjected thoroughly enthralled in the fine details of the event occurring in front of their very eyes.
“And that’s when you put your hat on. The weasel’s claws sink right into it, affixing it to your noggin.”
“And that’s what holds it to your melon?” Duane asked.
“No, any true expert knows that it’s actually a natural adhesive that the Ground weasel exudes that keeps it on.” “
That really works?” Duane asked, skeptically.”
“Perfectly, as long as you don’t use masking tape.” Ron advised as Sergei Moo-goo-gai-pan catapulted into an inverted triple Salchow bounce.
As the be-hatted Mongolian Trampolinist soared and spun high above the audience, tragedy struck. The hat gave a sick lurch, as if it had a life of its own. Propelled by Sergei’s undulations, it rocketed towards the crowd. Elfie Schlegle and Tim Daggett, who were announcing the event gasped in horror.
Tim cried, “Watch out everyone that hat’s on a rampage.”
Ron’s last memory before the attack was of a be-hatted and shocked ground weasel with masking taped feet barreling towards his face. The shrill shriek of the ground weasel merged with the feeble cries of Ron and resonated across the stadium. In a blur of flying fur, the tiny animal wrestled Ron to the ground.
“Gaaaaaahhhhhh-ly” mused Duane who gaped in confusion.
The Story of Muffin
One day I was real hungry. REEEEEEAAAL Hungry. The not-so-nice lady at Arby’s had kicked me out because of the “French-fry incident”, but I knew where to get food if I couldn’t get food in the Arby’s – the next best place, the dumpster behind the Arby’s. When I got there I realized that someone had beat me to it. All the good stuff was gone. There were no more damp cheese fries, and no more shiny horsey sauce. When I looked inside to see who had beat me to all the ‘goodies’, I met Muffin. He was worried that I might want to steal his stash of rancid Arby’s sauce so he bit me. It was friendship at first bite. I knew immediately that Muffin wanted to come home with me, so I tied him up with some duct tape, and put him in the basket of my bike. I named him ‘muffin’ because he smelled like a combination of muffins and rotting sewage, and ‘rotting sewage’ is not a good name for a cat.
I knew right away that Muffin had been to Seeing-Eye cat school from the way that he jumped from piece of furniture to piece of furniture. Obviously he had been to the famous Seeing-Eye cat school in Puerto Raton in Guatemala. He was such a good seeing-eye cat that I made him a badge out of a safety pin and a frozen pork-chop, with the words done in easy cheese calligraphy. I pinned it to him, and I knew that he liked it because he clawed me all up, and that means that he is happy, or may be sleepy. Now whenever Muffin goes out in public, he can be easily recognized as the helpful cat he is. His uniform is almost complete, except for that for Christmas I am getting him a Tam that says “Muffin – The Seeingest Eye Cat That Ever Saw” I think it will be orange, or yellow, to match his eyes – they are usually red. My mom says its blue, but I know its Red. I know my colors. Besides, red is his favorite color, because whereever he goes, that’s the color he leaves behind.
Red is a color sometimes appears in movies, Muffin likes movies, but not black and white ones, they suck. One time I took Muffin to the movie theatre. He got scared during the scary part of the movie, and he jumped up and shredded up the movie screen just like our curtains at home. When the usher came in to tell him to get out, Muffin clawed him up. The EMTs came to stop the Usher’s bleeding, and the Manager told us that Muffin was no longer welcome at the theatre and that we would have to watch movies at home. Muffin was so upset that he clawed up the Manager, and then, as a courtesy, he clawed up the EMT.
Doesn’t everyone love a Polka? I know Muffin does! Muffin’s favorite show is the Laurence Welk Show. When it comes on he does a funny dance. As soon as he hears the music he does the funny dance that makes him claw up the furniture and attack my sister. It may look like he’s mad, but really he’s happy, ‘cause all cats dance like that when they are happy. I know all about Cats because I read a book called "Malcolm the Dancing Cat", I know it was a good book, because when I bought it the man at the store laughed so hard that he fell down on the floor and rolled around. Muffin sometimes rolls around in my dinner, but only when I have beans and cake. Sometimes he rolls around in the ‘presents’ the cows leave behind in the field near my house. Then Mom says Muffin can’t come in until he has a bath. Muffin doesn’t like Baths. Speaking of which, one day we went on the Laurence Welk show. We had to drive allllllllllllll the way to the studio in Lake Delton Wisconsin, and Muffin clung to my head like a ground weasel the whole time. He left little holes in my scalp like a Barbie doll has when you burn off all her hair. Once Muffin set fire to my Barbie doll, but that’s a whole different story. When we got on the show, I told them that Muffin was a special cat and that he could sing a special polka. It was called “The Horsey Sauce Rag”. Laurence Welk was skeptical at first, but when I explained to him that it involved Muffin and my Casio keyboard he was all for it. I’d never actually seen Muffin play the keyboard before, but I was sure he could do it. So I switched on the Bossa Nova, and cranked it. The show started and Laurence Welk appeared in another of his stunning outfits. He had on a red tie, and I knew that this was in honor of Muffin, because Muffin also had a red tie on. After thanking Frosty Acres, the makers of Tasty Taters for sponsoring the show, Laurence Welk introduced Muffin. Muffin was kind of ticked off though, because he knew that Tasty Taters didn’t use the ecologically friendly policy of killing off the old useless trees and planting new ones. Instead they grew brand new trees to put in their taters. I think that Muffin must have decided to take a stand, because when I turned on the Casio Keyboard, Muffin didn’t do anything. Laurence Welk came out and kicked Muffin to try and get him to sing. Muffin turned around and did the worst claw-job I’d ever seen on him. When he was done all that was left was a red tie, a small pile of polyester, and a toupee made from real Polynesian hair. I said, “Muffin, you are Bad” and so I made him sleep in the kitchen for two nights as opposed to his usual bed in the Car hole. Mmmmmm, mamma. Beef pie. Muffin has just clawed off my typing thumb. I love muffin.
The fresh Georgia morning broke over the Armuchee Paper plant with all the sulphorus odor that masticated tree trunks could emit. Lee Roy leaned his unshaven face out of the boxcar he had hopped back in Op, Alabama, and thought to himself that just over the horizon lay Fort O, and a million memories of his long-lost sweetheart Lurleen. He hadn’t seen her since that night back in the winter of ’79, when he left town with all his belongings slung over his shoulder in a handkerchief on a thick pine stick, looking for a better life over that next stretch of train track. One stretch had turned into two and two into three, and time had just past. Here he was, though, ready to renew old ties, and start over from where he had left off, provided Lurleen was willing.
The train continued to coast on right into the mountains that blurred the line between what was Georgia and what was Tennessee. Just this side of Summerville, however, Lee Roy’s plan hit a snag. The train slowed to a stop just near the curve in the road that housed Big Jim’s Dance, and he heard men outside the sliding doors of his boxcar saying that the train couldn’t go any further due to an el Camino that had died on the tracks ahead, and seemed to have been abandoned by its owner. The person in question had left no identification in the car, except for perhaps the five empty altoid tins and a packet of half eaten sunflower seeds, along with a mysterious and noticeable musk. Lee Roy had no choice but to walk. Lee Roy pulled on his patched and holey boots, and his headband that had once upon a time been a toboggan but which had eroded away to a thin dingy strip that clung around his ears. After consulting his map, the inclination of the sun, and the moss that seemed to cling to all sides of the trees, he decided that the best route would be a short cut through the Chickamauga Battle field. Lee Roy shouldered his threadbare handkerchief, and set off down the road.
Upon reaching the green field tastefully littered with oversized marble monuments to long dead now anonymous soldiers, Lee Roy paused in contemplation of a sign directing him to the welcome center of the bloodstained battle ground, with free public toilets! Now, after many years of riding rails, Lee Roy had become something of a connoisseur of clean toilets, and he knew that the best were often to be found in national parks commemorating the Civil War. He decided to avail himself of the opportunity to visit what could be the last clean free toilet for a long time.
Back in the seventies, when, in Lee Roy’s opinion, everything had been better anyway, the Chickamauga Welcome Center had been at the height of fashion for Civil War battlefields in North West Georgia. It was concrete slab building, complete with the handicap access ramps that a lawsuit had put in and a plaque commemorating Mitchell Orwitz, the employee of the month. Lee Roy went through the sliding glass doors just like at the piggly wiggly, and stepping inside tried not to look too much like a vagrant. After making proper use of the facilities, Lee Roy emerged from the men’s room only to be faced with a Civil War soldier in Union Blues holding a very pointy bayonet.
“ Hey there, can I help you?” Said the sandy haired young man in his Appalachian drawl.
Lee Roy panicked, not knowing what to think at first, relaxing as he spotted the national parks issue name badge that the young man wore. Squinting to read of the name, he sputtered out his own “…. my name is Mr. Brown, but you can call me Lee Roy”.
Part the Second
“How peculiar,” the strapping young man mused, “ That’s my name too, I’m Lindsey Levi Brown. May I tell you several things about the War of Northern Aggression.”
Distracted by Lindsey’s revelation Lee Roy replied “ Sure.”
“Great!” Lindsey enthused, it was the first time anyone had ever wanted to listen to Lindsey. He began “ First of all don’t make the one big mistake that most people make about the origins of the conflict. It had nothing to do with the Muskrat population of the Northern Oregon territory. It also wasn’t over butter tariffs, though this may surprise you.”
Lee Roy removed his sweatband to scratch his head “uh-huh…”
“ The true origins of the Yankee invasion of our sweet Southern homeland lies in the …” As Lindsey continued, Lee Roy’s thoughts drifted from the boy’s speech to the lilting Appalachian music that had once been in his beloved Lurleen’s voice. Lee Roy found it striking how similar Lindsey’s enticing aroma and masculine features were to Lurleen’s.
Suddenly Lee Roy interrupted Lindsey just as he was saying, “ …Which was not nearly as important as the Battle of King of Prussia Pennsylvania, where as you might recall General Hoober destroyed General Nancy’s cider house, and carried off the entire duck population of Northern Pennsylvania …”
“ Say there boy… You from ‘round these here parts, or are you from yonder?”
Lindsey was shocked that Lee Roy had cleverly intuited Lindsey’s locality. “ Well yes sir, I do. I live in Fort O, right on the Tennessee border. I live right between the crack house and the whore house in the Habitat for humanity house. GOD BLESS JIMMY CARTER!”
Lee Roy was taken aback “ Did you say Fort O?”
Lindsey nodded his disproportionately large cranium. “You wouldn’t happen to know Lurleen Shirley, would you boy?”
“ Yes sir, Lurleen is my Mamma.” Lindsey replied, trying not to gaze at the dirt caked in the wrinkles of Lee Roy’s weathered face.
“What year was you born, boy?” was Lee Roy’s next inquiry.
“1979” a puzzled Lindsey replied, “ But I hardly think that this is relevant to my discussion of the War of Southern Discomfort.”
A sudden inspiration slapped Lee Roy smack-dab in the face. “ Boy, I’m havin’ a thought…”
“Now Presenting Chapter 3”
Lee Roy pondered over his thought for many minutes, until finally Lindsey asked, “Sir, you’ve been thinking for an awfully long time, should I call a doctor? Would you like to hear more about the Battle of Turtle Hill? You know most of the soldiers who perished there, died not from bullets but from turtle bites.”
Lindsey’s query brought Lee Roy out of his deep stupor, and he realized that he had intuited a great insight. “ SHOOOOOOOOO Dang BOY, YOU MY KIN!!!!”
Lindsey was confused by the man’s revelation. Thinking it too wonderful to be true, he asked, “Are you saying that you are my Father?”
“Yes boy, I think it so.” The old man drawled.
Lindsey’s eyes shone with newfound tears. “I ain’t never had no Pa before,” Lindsey exclaimed, his emotion causing him to slip into his natural Appalachian dialect.
“Now boy, there ain’t no reason to be cryin’. I ain’t never had no son before, and I won’t stand for no wussy one. Don’t make me come over there and whup you. You ain’t too big to be turned over my knee.”
Lindsey could only think of one reply “ Okaay…”, but Lee Roy’s expression of fatherly love cleared the tears out of his eyes.
“Say boy, how’s your Mamma? Is she still a looker?” Lee Roy asked with a hopeful gleam in his eye.
Not sure how to reply, and not really listening anyway, Lindsey continued on his earlier train of thought. “ Okaaay... Damn Pa, I’m as happy as General Archie when he defeated Captain Farmer’s Fleet at Floyd’s Flats.”
Stunned by Lindsey’s skillful use of alliteration, Lee Roy said, “ All this here talkin’ makes me hungry. Can I come to your house for supper?”
Lindsey was struck with a painful recollection of a particular incident in which his mother had proclaimed that should he ever bring his Father home, not only would she force him to drop out of Pep band, she would also shove her boot as far as it would go up one of his bodily cavities. Which orifice would be a surprise. Lindsey had no choice but to reply to Lee Roy “…ummm… I'm sorry, but I am washing my hair tonight.”
“ Well Boy” said Lee Roy sounding a might depressed, I’d feel bad if we didn’t at least share a box of popcorn you bought over at yonder concession stand.”
Lindsey pondered this thought. Popcorn did sound good, but Lee Roy, a traveler of the world might prefer a bag of the low sodium, unsalted pretzels. Which should he pick?
A: If you think Lindsey should purchase the Popcorn to share with Lee Roy, turn to page A.
Settling on popcorn as the snack of choice, Lindsey and his father linked arms and sauntered over to the serve your-self concession stand. As Lindsey grabbed the scoop and extra large popcorn barrel (decorated with a lovely picture of Private Jams McKenndry, famous for single-handedly causing his platoon to lose at the battle of Underwear Ridge) Lee Roy caught sight of the General Sherman pepper shaker and General Lee salt shaker.
Just as Lindsey was turning to ask, “Hey Pa, do you want butter or imitation Swiss cheese on your popcorn?” Lee Roy grabbed the Lee saltshaker and whomped Lindsey upside the noggin. With a confused whimper, Lindsey slumped to the floor. Using the red velvet crowd control ropes, Lee Roy bound Lindsey to the slushie machine. Cackling greedily he began to fill his pockets with the contents of the cash register, the suggested donation box, and the memorial fountain.
Lindsey began to regain consciousness just in time to see Lee Roy shovel all the hot-dogs from the hot-dog machine into his handkerchief, which he quickly retied to his tick wooden pole in order to preserve freshness.
“Pa! What the Hell are you doing?” Lindsey hollered, clambering to his feet.
Lee Roy chuckled gleefully. “Boy, you dumb enough to think every guy who comes in her procalimin’ to be your Daddy is your pa? ‘Sides, I ain’t never seen no child half as homely as you.”
Shocked and slack-jawed, Lindsey lamented, “If you aren’t my pa, then how did you know who my mamma is?”
“I knew your mamma well, boy. I was seein’ her whilst she was a-courtin’ my cousin Fauntleroy. Both of them was half as ugly as a monkey and twice as fragrant. It was a match made in heaven. I took one look at you and knew whose boy you was.”
Looking down at the inclination of the rising moon Lee Roy presumed it was almost time for the eight o’clock to Lake Delton. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d lose his chance of riding the rails in a boxcar filled with cheese (fine transportation and good eating). But before he left, he felt he owed the boy one bit of advice. “Boy, if ever you get stuck in Goose Creek South Carolinie, remember these three words; Sheldon’s Hammock Hut.” With a tip of his headband, Leroy kicked his heels, and skipped off into the moonlit evening.
Crestfallen and deeply wounded by Lee Roy’s cruel words and lack of patrolineage, Lindsey began to lose his fight with the tears that threatened to fall. Suddenly, the sweet tinkling of the tiny bell that hung over the visitors’ center door signaled the arrival of a diminutive old lady. Looking over her shoulder, Lindsey noticed a very annoyed looking man stepping out of the lady’s green suburban.
“See, Miss Farmer!” The man, whose Oak Hill name tag declared him to be called David Smith announced, “I told you the Chickamauga battlefield is no place for a lady alone at night.”
Drying his eyes and sniffling Lindsey found hope anew in the visitors. Gathering up his bayonet and untangling himself from the red rope, Lindsey replaced his Government Issue blue hat. “Hey!” He exclaimed, “Y’all want to hear about the Civil War?”
Settling on low-sodium salt-less pretzels as the snack of choice, Lindsey and his father linked arms and sauntered over to the serve your-self concession stand. Handing Lee Roy the package of pretzels, Lindsey watched with a bemused smile on his face as Lee Roy attempted to use his two teeth to open the bag of pretzels.
“Gee Pa, I’m so glad you came back,” Lindsey murmured, his eyes glistening with tars far more salty than the pretzels. “We should celebrate by going on a fishing-trip.”
Touched by Lindsey’s concern for his blood pressure and general heart health, Lee Roy immediately consented. Lee Roy even thought back to his days as a young vagabond and remembered the best fishing hole he’s ever encountered. “You know boy, there be a fishing hole so grand, the fish jump right out into your pants pockets if ya ain’t careful.”
“Where is this legendary, hallowed place of which you speak, Pa?” Lindsey asked, trembling with excitement.
“Why just over them there mountains in Troutville, Virginie. Finest fishin’ I ever came across in this whole U.S. of A.”
“Let’s go now!” Lindsey enthused, tossing aside his bayonet and cap. “We can ride in my big rusty grandpa car.”
Morally opposed to the use of gasoline for anything other than drinking, Lee Roy scoffed. “Boy, why should we take a fusty old car when we have a perfectly good boxcar we can hop in just about an hour.”
“Wow, Pa! I’m so happy to have finally met you. Think of all the things that you can teach me.”
With that, the pair walked out of the museum and into their future as boxcar riding hobos together. Later that evening as Lindsey decided there was no life superior to that of a drifter, he leaned over to Lee Roy, who sat with his feet dangling out of the moving boxcar. “Hey, Pa- wanna hear about the Civil War?”
Never Trust Your Grandma
Never had the sun shone as brightly or the sky been so blue as that particular day that Luigi awoke to at Sun College. On the shores of majestic lake Titicaca, nestled between Bolivia and Peru, Luigi’s window looked out over the waters so tranquil and blue. His heart swelled as he realized that the day had finally arrived. Today marked the tryouts for the sun college international Ballroom dance club.
Bounding out of his gladwear futon, Luigi jumped out of his "Great Symphonies of the World Pajamas" and ran to his closet to choose his best pair of dancing pants. Luigi was torn. Would they ask him to try out with the tango or the merenge? Sequins went well with the tango, but the merenge would call for red. What if they asked him to try out with the foxtrot – he had nothing to coordinate with that. Plus he was still having a bit of trouble with his gringkoff pivot, an essential step in the foxtrot.
As Luigi stood there in his boxer briefs pondering over whether he should wear his white or black jazz shoes, his roommate Alistair wandered in reeking of lemons, as usual for a Thursday morning.
“Yo mate it’s late” Alistair sagely pointed out.
People always believed everything that Alistair said. So, of course Luigi hurried to pick out a killer ensemble before rushing off to the dance studio.
Luigi entered the dance studio and immediately broke into a cold sweat. His biggest rival, Robbie, was already there, resplendent in his red tights and masculine black leg warmers. Robbie had just completed a jazz square to end all jazz squares followed by a graceful grande jette and a fifth position demi pliet, and was now the envy of all the guys who hung around the dance studio. Luigi’s heart beat visibly thorough his regulation sun college dance sweatshirt with a torn out collar a la flash dance.
Luigi was just about to thrill the guys with a quadruple fuete when Madame Singedemer, the dance coach, began to pair off the dance troupe hopefuls in couples for the tryouts. Luigi was hopeful that he would be paired with the graceful and lovely Rehanna, well known to be the most desirable partner of all. His heart fell however, as Rehanna was paired alphabetically with Robbie. Luigi found himself partnered with Monia.
Monia had recently transferred from Lllangolen, a small town in Wales, and the world’s largest producer of fish glue. Monia was well known around campus for her impressive girth, which she proudly stated to be well above 600 kilos. Monia drove around all the time in her little blue car. Unfortunately her car was slightly stunted for her, and she therefore was forced to hold the door closed with her left hand as she drove down the road. Monia emitted a constant smell somewhat like bar-b -q, as she almost constantly shoveled haggis into her mouth with her right hand as she drove along. People were forever fleeing Monia’s little blue car, as it spread an impressive path through the crowds on this impressive 17-acre sun College campus. She had only hit one person yet.
For the occasion of the Dance try-outs Monia was attired in her best halter and barely-there bikini bottoms ensemble. Luigi hoped that Monia was well versed in early Germanic poetry, as he deeply believed that this was the true language of dance. Luigi popped an altoid into his mouth and sauntered up to his new dance partner.
"Hi. Did you know that the average person’s foot is the same length as the distance between their shoulder and their forearm?” Luigi coolly announced. Monia was stunned by his clear grasp of human anatomy. As she came to grips with this exciting bit of news, Robbie and Rehanna took the floor for the first dance: the Siberian waltz. Each spin and turn was flawless; each revelee was graceful and seamless. It was only on the final and all-important centrifugal arabesque that Rehanna’s high-heeled slipper caught in her feathered hoop skirt. Nothing could prevent her from falling flat on her tulle-covered derriere. Robbie tumbled after in a graceless heap. Luigi made a noise something like a small rodent finding cheese to express his muffled triumph. After seventeen couples, all slightly less perfect than Robbie and Rehanna’s still flawed performance, it was Luigi’s time to shine.
He and Monia took their place in center stage for the Turkish shuffle Rumba. Luigi had carefully chosen the music for this single all-important dance – "Parson Brown" by the New Christy Minstrels. As the first plaintiff strains of that heart rending song were tweaked out the dulcimer, Luigi pulled out his castanets and danced in a graceful circle around Monia, who performed three simultaneous somersaults before leaping to her feet. The pair clapped hands and then launched into a panda death spiral. Luigi knew that so far their routine had been successful, by the look on Robbie’s red glowering face. Luigi and Monia moved to finish off the dance with the piece de resistance, the Chou Jardin de pas de chat. The crowd was awestruck. Never had any one danced as Luigi and Monia. The dance floor seemed to cave in from the sheer power of their dance.
After many minutes of nervous tension, the judges mounted the stage to announce the final results. Who would make the team? Luigi nervously chewed on his fingernails as Monia pulled a new plate of Haggis from somewhere in her halter-top. The envelope was produced and the three new dancers were announced.
“ Robbie Stanco, Rehanna Suoicneterp, and Monia McJones fitzsmith” Luigi’s face fell. He couldn’t believe it. He’d wedged himself into his skintight tube hose for this? Didn’t they know quality when they saw it?
Suddenly behind him, there was a tremendous noise. When the crowd cleared, Luigi was able to see the aftermath of the terrible event that had occurred. Monia had suffered a haggis related accident. Luigi had been chosen to fill her place on the dance team. It was his dream come true.
As the sun set on sun college majestically lighting the waters of lake Titicaca, Luigi walked home, where he found Alistair polishing his gum boots.
“Guess what Alistair – I made the dance troupe!” Said Luigi.
Alistair looked up, “you got a spot on the team? So you danced like a dream.” Before chiseling a small bit of dried toothpaste out of the tread of his left boot. Luigi reflected, and it was true. But then everything Alistair said was true.
To be continued…