. . .

Too little, too soon

What are cherubim made of? Sweetness and light and holiness and might. That's what cherubim are made of.

What are demonspawn made of? Sourness and dark and blasphemy and hatred. That's what demonspawn are made of.

We're here now for the 27th annual doctor's association meeting of America in this year of our lord 1787 ad, which is a nice number. Look at it. Stare at the beautiful number. 1 7 8 7. It has rythm. It has music. It has my gal, who could ask for anything more? I seem to recall the movie ended badly, though. Something about booze and a gutter, is my guess. On the other hand, that's pretty much always my guess. I've got a one track pony. Booze and gutters, not necessarily in that order (when I need variety). Which would make it - a hushed silence falls over the crowd - gutters and booze! Hooray! Hooray!

I need me some of that there stuff. That. That stuffy stuff. The kind without olives. Yeah. Food. I hunger. But not for mortal food. (Crack kaBOOM!) (Crack kaBOOM, for the curious, is the sound of lightening striking immediately outside. Sometimes spelt Crackle ka BOOM. Not generally, though. The world must subscribe to a standard in such things. Otherwise, we will have chaos. Chaos! And not nice chaos, either. Not the kind with the pretty lights and the cats. No, we're talking the malevolent world-destroying kind. The kind that Isn't Nice At All. Won't that be nice? (Hint: no.)

(Hint: I may have been mistaken in that last hint. I did, after all, say won't that be nice instead of will that be nice. It's one of those wierd grammatical issues that I'm never quite comfortable with. I spurn such issues! Spurn them! Spurn them with might and main! Mite and mane? Maign and miht? Eh.) A brief interlude whilst the local feline trods upon the keyboard. Interlude ends. Wackiness resumes. (Or not, as the case may be, which it is. After all, the purpose of writing was to continue to write, and you're slipping.)

A brief digression whilst I try to rub feeling back into my frostbitten legs. Thank you. Where was I. Oh. Yes. Being "wacky". Hmph.

Fourscore and seven years ago, which would be, what, carry the 1, 1914? What was going on in 1914?

Unfortunately, due to the fact that I really know nothing whatsoever about 1914, except for something about Huns, and a faint memory of someone named Octavius, I can't show you anything about the grueling conditions back then.

I'm being stared at by said local feline. That's all right. I'm writing. I can pretend I'm ignoring him. No, wait, now he's going to sleep. No, I'm wrong, he's keeping his eyes open just enough that he can continue persecuting me. Lovely. I can't wait for the movie, and especially not for the sequel..

None of this having anything to do with the original topic of discussion. None of this having anything to do with anything at all, really, except for me being hungry.