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R. Linda:
There you lay having a buzz on from the fudge and full asleep. The rest of us looked at each other, then down at the Weasil sitting on the floor gingerly touching his broken front teeth. We all heaved a collective sigh and went off to sit down where we could, waiting for you to wake up.
But our sitting didn't last long, we could hear the Fat Farm Patrol chiseling away at the lettuce mache' barrier. Oh what to do now? Instantly, the Weasil was on his feet and throwing folding chairs at the ceiling where he thought you were hard and fast asleep. We all started shouting, "WAKE UP!"
We'd stop shouting and Weasil stood with a chair about to go aloft listening. You were turning around into a more comfy position! When suddenly we heard you mumble, "Ewww my arm is wet," then we heard what sounded like gentle slaps, and you said, "Ewww I have a crease in my face. I THINK I DROOL!"
I rolled me eyes and shook me head. Fine time for that, "Linda! Get moving the Fat Patrol is on the move! You have to hurry."
"Oh, okay Gabe, I musta drifted off, sorry," and I could have sworn you chuckled to yourself, but I couldn't be sure.
"I can hear the donut chorus," you whispered to yourself a wicked smile on your face as you started crawling forward. "You know you want me, just one, come on, you know you want it. I'll just buy one, lick the frosting, eat the insides and feel guilt. Oh yeah, ha ha, like a pig with no resistance." Then you laughed wickedly as you hurried along, the thought of one upping me with a donut firmly placed in your head. What motivation, I'll give you that much.
"Linda, hurry!" I shouted.
Far off you answered, "I'm crawling as fast as I can Gabe. It's kinda hard with nothing covering your knees. Like crawling along with bugs and critters, imagine you wearing a kilt and doing this! I'm getting a headache."
You came to a cross duct. You could go to the right or to the left. Poised on hands and knees you looked one way then the other. The smell of cooking potatoes on your right got your attention. You muttered to yourself, "I eat potatoes and I get fat. Last time I had potatoes, I woke up wondering why I was burping potatoes and why I had sour cream and butter on my jammies. I haven't had a tato in ages," you sighed. "I loooooove potatoes. Irish potato candy! Oh what I wouldn't give for a piece of THAT."
Obviously, you went to the right sniffing the potato smell.
You got to the vent opening and looked through. There were three people dressed in long white aprons, big chef hats and all stirring pots of boiling potatoes. You were just above the cookbook and looked down at a plateful of walnuts. You thought to yourself, "I can't eat those, my tongue swells up and I get a massive headache, much like I have now from all this dust. Oh my God, black walnuts, those are the worst."
If I had known you were watching potatoes boil, while silently debating yourself on the merits or lack of, of the black walnut, I'd have been up that vent meself trying to drag your arse out of there.
Finally you backed up and kept on until you came back to the cross ducts, only you couldn't remember which one led out and which one led back to the room. Still feeling the effects of the fudge high, with thoughts of Irish potato candy dancing in your head, and one-upmanship on a donut, you crawled back to the room opening. When you saw what you had done, you cursed out loud, and of course that got all our attentions.
"WHAT are you doing back here?" I shouted over the constant pneumatic drilling of the lettuce mache'.
"I'm still looking," you said, "I gotta tell ya, I'm getting a craving for something sweet." And then you laughed.
We all gathered closer to look up at you horrified you'd say such a thing and then laugh when we all knew YOU had had some fudge and WE had nothing sweet. Until . . .
End of part 8
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
There you lay having a buzz on from the fudge and full asleep. The rest of us looked at each other, then down at the Weasil sitting on the floor gingerly touching his broken front teeth. We all heaved a collective sigh and went off to sit down where we could, waiting for you to wake up.
But our sitting didn't last long, we could hear the Fat Farm Patrol chiseling away at the lettuce mache' barrier. Oh what to do now? Instantly, the Weasil was on his feet and throwing folding chairs at the ceiling where he thought you were hard and fast asleep. We all started shouting, "WAKE UP!"
We'd stop shouting and Weasil stood with a chair about to go aloft listening. You were turning around into a more comfy position! When suddenly we heard you mumble, "Ewww my arm is wet," then we heard what sounded like gentle slaps, and you said, "Ewww I have a crease in my face. I THINK I DROOL!"
I rolled me eyes and shook me head. Fine time for that, "Linda! Get moving the Fat Patrol is on the move! You have to hurry."
"Oh, okay Gabe, I musta drifted off, sorry," and I could have sworn you chuckled to yourself, but I couldn't be sure.
"I can hear the donut chorus," you whispered to yourself a wicked smile on your face as you started crawling forward. "You know you want me, just one, come on, you know you want it. I'll just buy one, lick the frosting, eat the insides and feel guilt. Oh yeah, ha ha, like a pig with no resistance." Then you laughed wickedly as you hurried along, the thought of one upping me with a donut firmly placed in your head. What motivation, I'll give you that much.
"Linda, hurry!" I shouted.
Far off you answered, "I'm crawling as fast as I can Gabe. It's kinda hard with nothing covering your knees. Like crawling along with bugs and critters, imagine you wearing a kilt and doing this! I'm getting a headache."
You came to a cross duct. You could go to the right or to the left. Poised on hands and knees you looked one way then the other. The smell of cooking potatoes on your right got your attention. You muttered to yourself, "I eat potatoes and I get fat. Last time I had potatoes, I woke up wondering why I was burping potatoes and why I had sour cream and butter on my jammies. I haven't had a tato in ages," you sighed. "I loooooove potatoes. Irish potato candy! Oh what I wouldn't give for a piece of THAT."
Obviously, you went to the right sniffing the potato smell.
You got to the vent opening and looked through. There were three people dressed in long white aprons, big chef hats and all stirring pots of boiling potatoes. You were just above the cookbook and looked down at a plateful of walnuts. You thought to yourself, "I can't eat those, my tongue swells up and I get a massive headache, much like I have now from all this dust. Oh my God, black walnuts, those are the worst."
If I had known you were watching potatoes boil, while silently debating yourself on the merits or lack of, of the black walnut, I'd have been up that vent meself trying to drag your arse out of there.
Finally you backed up and kept on until you came back to the cross ducts, only you couldn't remember which one led out and which one led back to the room. Still feeling the effects of the fudge high, with thoughts of Irish potato candy dancing in your head, and one-upmanship on a donut, you crawled back to the room opening. When you saw what you had done, you cursed out loud, and of course that got all our attentions.
"WHAT are you doing back here?" I shouted over the constant pneumatic drilling of the lettuce mache'.
"I'm still looking," you said, "I gotta tell ya, I'm getting a craving for something sweet." And then you laughed.
We all gathered closer to look up at you horrified you'd say such a thing and then laugh when we all knew YOU had had some fudge and WE had nothing sweet. Until . . .
End of part 8
Copyright © 2007 All rights reserved
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