We have faced our first challenge. Yesterday a horsefly snuck into the room. There was a split among the junta as to what to make of this intrusion. Miranda favored leniency; but we explained that we must make an example of this first intruder to his comrades-in-arms, lest they foolishly return to the annex. It's dangerous, because if they were able to get by us (doubtful because we are wicked strong and fast, but anything is possible) and into the bunker proper, all would be lost.
Explaining this, there was no further dissent. The intruder, lulled into a false sense of security, no doubt, by the soothing cadence of our voice, was relaxing on the ABA Non-Profit Governance Manual. A deadly miscalculation. For this partisan, retribution was swift: our fist, without wavering or slowing, came crashing down upon him like a thunderbolt from Zeus, crushing his exoskeleton in one foul swoop. In a crushing coup de grace, we picked up the Manual and watched the corpus of the hapless wanderer slide into the waste receptical, like so many dreams abandoned and struggles lost.
The other insects must have gotten the message. So far, we have had freedom and peace. Sometimes, to make an omlette, you have to break some eggs.
P.S. the title is from Dylan, Subterranean Homesick Blues. Know it. Get it.
5 comments:
I hope you washed your slimy fist after this incident, or have a bottle of Purell hand cleanser in there.
I guess if you have your own window, you don't need a weatherman (or weatherperson). The rest of us, tucked away in the bunker, aren't so fortunate.
We all have to make sacrifices kids, we all have to make sacrifices.
Slimy? Ouch :(.
Gentlemen, we have ourselves a gunner . . . I mean scholar, =). I know you have that one memorized brother.
I am familiar with the work of Tabanus Linnaeus. However, I am unaware of any poem of Dylan Thomas involving weathermen. There is, of course, "It's Raining Men" by the Weather Girls.
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