AVANT MOI . . . LE PRELUDE.

Le Chat Qui Peep!

Funny how we know just where to assemble, each morning, for the goodbye kiss. People, people, and dessicated animals. The domestic, meanwhile, must toil in the antechambers where the victuals rhyme with vittles. The antechambers, by the by, are where you must call after the flop, and by call, I mean, drop your breeches that rhyme with britches. If it were "Complete the Sentence" then you'd get on this whole Bridges, Ridges, Riches, [Complete the Sentence] thing, which isn't fair, in any stretch of the pagination. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. Lie Around, Lie Around. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. (Fess! Fess! Fess! etc.) Which brings me to, what I'll call, The Problem of the Summit. I mean, aside from the buzzing spotlamps, the seesaw sirens, the jackbooted regiments of confused irregulars, the fishyssoise, and all that French kookete down by the riverside. The Summit, after all, is just that: The Top, The Heights, and yet, there is nothing, afterwards, to best The Summit, even as The Summit banks on the principle that it will, indeed, be bested. Like a wedding [will be bested] or a weeding [will be bested] by the fertility to follow. This new radical philosophy, folks: I just got weed of it today.