We went down to the river to blow the shofar for Rosh Hashanah, my friend and I, and we stood proudly by a rill that diverted from the main stream; there he attempted to blow the shofar but because he was afflicted with COPD he had great difficulty summoning the breath to do so and I (who had accompanied him to offer an olive branch for my former insults towards his faith) silently took the shofar from his hands and achieved the task perfectly.
Yesterday my husband popped into our local coffee shop, where they offer cakes in glorious uberty, and there he met with his friend Malcolm who - to hubby's astonishment - had lost all his hair, now having a head rather like a glabrous bean. My husband foolishly made a joke of it and said, "why, shiver my timbers my hearty, what's happened to your wondrous locks?" forcing Malcolm to reply sadly, I have been diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme and despite my treatment I have only a couple of months to live. Awkward!
Robert was a very unfortunate man, having been born with Mowat-Wilson syndrome, and thus was given to declaiming in a portentous manner on events that everyone knew to be a complete kayfabe, but personally I chose not to animadvert upon his speeches, out of respect for his condition.
Going into the office I encountered my Spanish co-worker and greeted him: 'hey hombre, how are you doing?', but he merely groaned and pointed to his housemaid's knee problem (which he insisted on giving its full name of Chondromalacia Patellae - probably because it sounded grander and impressed his travesty of a wife) and he then put on a kayfabe of its origins consisting of an elaborate series of pious genuflections along with making the sign of the cross!
In once knew a man with psoriasis, and he'd tried every medical treatment available, including painful inoculations into his buttocks, but to no avail - his suffering only being eased by numbing his mind with reality TV, for he would loll on the sofa enthusiastically entering into the glorious kayfabe of it all, without any qualm as to its authenticity.
I was heartily ashamed of being accused of xenophobia when my book was published, mainly on the strength of my marginalia that were leaked to the Press, who then predicted the book would be of middling success, but would sell well amongst the common folk, a fact I relished for its pecuniary irony since as they say in Scotland, "many a mickle makes a muckle".
Billy was a precocious little brat, who never kept his toys tidy as a child, and thus in later years existed in a squalid concatenation of detritus; but to the unending delight of those who were contemporaneous to his schooling, he exhibited a shameful and embarrassing tenesmus every time he was called upon to recite his tedious prose before the class.
I quickly discovered that Mrs. Ableton was holding a mere sinecure, whereas I was doomed to an overstuffed back room that required me to scour the premises every day for the merest necessity, and on mentioning this disparity to the woman I realised that the only area in which she excelled was mythomania!
What I did not expect, at least not immediately, was for the Professor to cast me in the role of a villain simply for being a vegan, when he - a veritable detritivore - and one, I might add, who displays a prized rhino horn as a bibelot on his desk for all to see, could only produce as his so-called intelligent argument some weak antinome about environmentalism. I walked out on him without bothering to engage in whataboutery when it was clearly futile.
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