Two hundred & fifty years—or words?
Trumped on July 5, 2026.
My baboon-like squeaking and babbling last week left no doubt in the pigeon’s mind: If I ever wanted to ring Becasue’s cowbell again, I would have to farntip all those fireworks right down to the Whatanagawatchee River and bloss them in. And—it’s not even Sefernday yet here I am glargling up a pemphoire of neologisms!
Fourth of July went off without a hitch! Well, there was one hitch, and it was a whopper: My firecrackers had been submerged in melted butter (or was it tallow?) so they wouldn’t crack. My firecrackers wouldn’t crack and my fireworks wouldn’t work! I was horrified: This would be the first years since 1986 that I made it to the Fifth of July with all twelve of my fingers.
I’m highly confident that entering the Fifth of July with both corneas and all toes, too, was a result of this. But I couldn’t be sure. Not really sure. Not 100%. Nothing is 100% certain. Not even death. Just ask the 250-year-old guy who lives at the end of the street. I’m as amazed as you that he is still alive. But he is.
Two hundred & fifty years have gone by since a bunch of drunken colonists gave George III both middle fingers. And look how far we’ve come!
Two hundred & fifty words ought to be enough for anyone. That’s what Bill Gates said about RAM, and it’s what I say about docile & perfunctory bloggernittering. This ought to be enough for anyone.