Copyright © 2006 Frenulum. All rights reserved.
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[Original comments from 2006/02/10]
One minute he’s sitting there wrapped in his own
deep thoughts. “Is the acquisition of Reuben Sierra
really a good move for the Twins? He’s forty years
old, for one thing. And can an ex-Yankee ever fit
into the clubhouse chemistry-wise?...”
Suddenly, she’s in the room, asking a question, and
the clock starts ticking toward his doom. He has but
one chance to save himself. One chance to prove he’s
not an insensitive, unobservant lout, unworthy of
her esteem.
Something about her hair? New shoes? — that's a wild
pattern, surely he'd have remembered seeing them
before... well, maybe not. Did that garter belt always
have a pink bow? Perfume? Manicure? New glasses? — don’t
be silly, she’s not wearing any. His eyes frantically
search for a clue.
A small part of his mind has failed to notice the sound
of the General Quarters klaxon, and is still meandering
down the original path: “On the other hand, a good
switch-hitting DH could really....”
Then, as the first steam of impatience begins to
rise behind her eyes, fragments of brain power start
to divert themselves against his will. “Hey, why
would she wear a garter belt but no stockings?” asks
one, and “Why’s she nearly starkers in the middle of
the afternoon?” demands another. His mind is thrown
into confusion — and then the fatal idea hits,
shutting down all further rational thought like
the tripping of a circuit breaker:
Ooooh, wonder if I can get me some o’ that?
He’s a dead man.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Answer: the throw-pillow on the couch is new. Bzzzzz! Too late!
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