snippets from real correspondence

He carries around a severed head wherever he goes. I asked him why, thinking he was the proprietor of aome long-lost English pub called "The {instert Title of Nobility}'s head."
"Well," he said, "my basement is full of them and I figured it'd be impolite to ask them how they got there. And I have to do something or other with them, so I carry one around with me at all times."
I'm afraid that the weight of so many severed heads under his feet is somehow influencing his actions, that so many minds pressed together can controll his and make him feel compelled to carry one of them around.
"It would explain my dancing." He said. "I'd be pretty angry if I were a severed head stuck in a basement. I'd want my revenge on the world somehow."
"I don't know," I replied, "if I were a severed head stuck in a basement I'd want to get out and see the world. Maybe they just like how you dance."
He still hasn't asked the heads why they're there, there may be another installment later, if I can convince him to interrogate some of the heads.

Well?

Tell me, what did you think would happen when you pushed the button?

Sometimes, there's an uprising.

Sometimes I look out the windows and wonder why the raccoons are gathering next to the pond. Sometimes I look out the windows and wonder why the possums are gathering in the fruitless plum. Sometimes I look out windows and wonder why the skunks are gathering under the fruiting plums. Sometimes, I look out windows and wonder why the high school kids are gathering in the...under the...just gathering. Sometimes I worry, but most of the time I just sigh and accept that sometimes we have to fight off the revolutionary elements and all will return to normal.


Should I worry about the Wombats that are gathering around the Eden rose out front?