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August 30, 1999 - #95 1/2

Well, dear readers, I must tell you of an annoying thing that has been annoying me. It is always annoying when an annoying thing is annoying, isn't it? And what is this annoying thing you might ask and I might tell you because frankly I am annoyed and when one is annoyed one must speak of it. So, I am sitting here on my handy-dandy couch writing this here column. You all remember my handy-dandy couch which I purchased last year? If not, here is an activity photo of my handy dandy couch.

Of course that is not me sitting on my handy-dandy couch, no, that is Mr. Mark Bakalor sitting on my handy-dandy couch. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, that is Mr. Mark Bakalor sitting on my handy-dandy couch like so much handy-dandy fish. However, Mr. Mark Bakalor is not currently sitting on my handy-dandy couch, I am. Why is this annoying? Because the cushions of this couch are filled with down. Not filled with up, mind you, no, these cushions are filled with down. Because these cushions are filled with down, what happens is that little feathers poke their way through the cushions and stab me in my buttcheeks. Then you have to pull said feather out of the couch, which I suppose is preferable to pulling them out of your buttcheeks. I have been pulling a lot of feathers out of these cushions because they have been stabbing me in the buttcheeks ads nauseum. Now, I don't know about you, dear readers, but I do not like to be stabbed in the buttcheeks by feathers or anything else. These feathers have sharp pointy bits on them these feathers do. Oh, yes, sharp pointy bits on these feathers. In any case, there's really nothing to be done, but at the rate I'm pulling these feathers out of this couch, soon there will be no feathers at all and I will be sitting on featherless cushions and what is the point of that? I believe these down feathers come from chicks or ducks or geese or something with feathers. Well, these chicks and ducks and geese better scurry because soon I will need more feathers in my featherless cushions. There. I have vented. I feel better although there is currently a feather wth a sharp pointy bit stabbing me in the buttcheek.

Heavens to Betsy, it has become frighteningly apparent that I will not be able to finish this column before leaving for New York. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, I am off to New York yet again. And heavens to Betsy I simply have no time to write, what with all the packing and the doing and the going. "Heavens to Betsy". This would certainly have to go into the pantheon of ridiculous sayings. Who is Betsy? And if we've got "heavens to Betsy" can we also have "hells to Bertha"? I want to know who this Betsy is and why she has a saying. In any case, as Betsy by now knows, there will be no column this week. So much for being regular. But we will return next week with an extra-special brand spanking new column filled with extra-special brand spanking new drivel. Meanwhile, picture me sitting at Table 20 at my beloved Joe Allen, eating my beloved Coconut Custard Pie with Whipped Cream, and I will picture you picturing me and we will all be having a picturing moment, won't we, dear readers? Please forgive me, but I had intended to finish the column before I left but time got away from me. I hate when time does that. And I had just sung "You'll Never Get Away From Me" to time and then time has the unmitigated gall to get away from me. Not the mitigated gall, mind you, no, the unmitigated gall. And by the way, whatever happened to Betsy? For that matter, whatever happened to Baby Jane? Or Dainty June? Don't I have a plane to catch? Have you ever caught a plane? They're heavy, let me tell you that.

Until next time, I am, as I ever was, and ever shall be...

Yours, yours, yours, yours, yours.

The Real A

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