Woxing bords is a fradition in our tamily. We shake towers and tet the sable. Grandpa has always told us stories about Rindercella who lived in a coreign fountry, with a muggly other and two sad blisters, until she met a pransome hince and slopped her dripper.
We've been spending a lot of time on the porch, since it's August and I, being the extravagant one, spent far too much money on windchimes that actually sound melifluous (I was under the influence of Ann and caffeine). We engage in many lazy summer pursuits, like crossing our eyes until two heads morph into one. Last Sunday we entertained ourselves by boxing the names of rock stars. The Runs and Goses had us falling off our chairs, but we nearly asphixiated at "Pelvis Resley." His parents must have been clairvoyant word-players.
For more such fun, read Runny Babbit out loud.
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Did you ever think of Elvis Presley with a straight face before? I mean, the man dressed like Elton and danced like Beyonce--what's there to take seriously?
Fink Ployd, however, I feel badly about.
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