I am off tomorrow, together with my girlfriend, the marvelous Debbie, (whom I cannot say enough good things about and so, to date, have said none; a backhanded compliment if ever there was one), to an annual fete of young-onset Parkinson's People. Those who know me even a little bit know that for me to go to such a thing, especially with my voice still not working, is about as likely as a ... well, as an extremely clever metaphor for an extremely unlikely thing. And truth to tell, I wouldn't be going except for Debbie's insistence that I get out of the apartment and mingle with real people. I am still highly doubtful about this entire undertaking, and intend (at the moment, anyway), to hide in my room and snarl and snap at anyone foolish enough to stick his hand through the bars. I'll let you know the outcome of all this.
(The post's title, BTW, is a line from Witness which has become a catchphrase within my family. It is, I trust, self-explanatory.)
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And was it a lively party? Whole lotta shakin' goin' on?
I know, I know, another one to burn in hell for ...
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