It was like the way that, after some time, a call to an out-of-touch friend needs to be an hour and a half to make up for the lapse, but we convince ourselves that friend isn't, ultimately, worth the 90 minutes. Instead, it's two episodes of Magnum P.I. and a sleeve of saltines, right before bed, all washed down with a jug of V-8. (Please imagine Tom Selleck slo-motion chugging tomato juice: and the resultant mustache residue).
After Selleck (or, let's be honest, Dorothy Zbornak), I'd sign on to this here venue late at night, but I'd think, well, I haven't really stretched my online-writing gluts and lats and maximi in awhile, so I'll need to start slow. Of course, I wouldn't start at all, literary fatty that I am.
This post, though, is that slow walk around the block, sentence-wise. I hope I haven't pulled any important muscles.
Soon, expect the return of your vigorous, attentive friend, Dr. True.
Tragicomic topics to include: cereal, self-cooling pillows, Delta Airlines, voles, the actor Tom Selleck (check), highway medians, faith, proper manners during a barbeque, and "Please, Mr. Postman" by The Marvelettes.
