No One Nice Again
We're sitting at the kitchen table reading Dad's antique Playboys. All the male models resemble Tucker Carlson and fuel-injected luxury Volkswagon cost $3300. A person might acquire a very respectable vehicle to do zero-to-fifty - yes, fifty - in 8.6 seconds. Todd looks up and says, "You could jog faster." Our favorite ad so far declares, "Introducing the new home appliance that answers your phone!" For crying out loud, the page Daria's reading features six people in some advanced stage of plaid gangrene, and she's convinced the best-looking person is the dog. The 1974 Spring and Summer Fashion Forecast is truly something special. An orchestra seat for Pippin starring Ben Vereen will run the Broadway goer a big $12.
I'm scritching Miss Samantha, princess and adventurous scrapper in a house full of larger cats. Pete, who should not lift anything, stayed home and whipped up a fantastic dinner of corned beef, latkes and cabbage, while we got up in the dark and had a yard sale of Dad's stuff. By the time we arrived back at Dad's house, we were ravenous and ready to bite each other's arms. Fortunately: latkes! After we stuffed ourselves, we all fell down or cleaned up, and when I woke up later, three cows were walking around in the front yard. We don't own any cows.
You should see the shoes.
Labels: Son Of Schmilsson