It’s not that we’re some form of hideous beast, merely we spend our weekends with lost causes. If it’s not the fish then it’s the watershed suffering, and while we’d adore curing cancer we know all the fly fishing traffic in the world would stand around expecting the other fellow to pay. Most blew their check on new graphite, what’s left of that paycheck can’t find each other in the same pants pocket.
Which is why most social niceties are reserved for outside the Intertubes. I get to keep the pages free of orphans, puppies, and lost causes, while donating a sawbuck or some time at work.
Instead, I’ll focus on baked goods, as any charity worth its salt knows it can pry dead presidents easily once a mug of coffee begins to look lonesome on the desk, and the rumor spreads of sugar in the break room, where Lemon Bars sleep at night – and cupcake frosting is fingerprint free.
… what they don’t know is that my preference for the rare, “Antarctic Lemon” is not because of their enhanced flavor, rather its the only plausible explanation on why my Lemon Bars show a faint tinge of Blue Dun.
I was tired and thought the pot on the stove was the Lemon filling.