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Ham and eggs, a dram of megs

Hammed up for February 26, 2006.

« Ham and eggs, ham and eggs,

« They go so good …with spam and dregs!

« Ham and eggs, ham and eggs,

« They taste so great …with a dram of megs! »

I sang that to myself, in French and Norwegian (as any erudite professor of European typography can immediately recognize by the quotation marks I chose to use above) as I strolled around town, into the bowling alleys, up and down the squares and plazas, in and out of the schools and parks, and up and down the walls of the sperm-donor clinic on Horatio Hornblower Street. Loquisha giggled—barefoot, her sandals tossed idly aside.

I looked under every rock and stone, I turned over every new leaf, I peered into every crack and crevice, but I found no new hobbies or bobbies or even Wobblies, to bother with. With the gnomes gone, the Englebee Troobles revealed as steaming piles of fraud, my fez stolen, and Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe, Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg, having dumped me in the street like an unattractive Dalmatian princeling, I have nothing to do now. Perhaps I should bury myself in the Mohole for a year or six-hundred and forty-seven…

…Or perhaps I should take up haberdashery under the strict tutelage of Mr. Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, the haberdasher.