Clark Ramsey, man of eleven fingers

(an id-based friendship)

The greatest guest I ever enjoyed in my big backyard was Clark Ramsey XI, a man of eleven toes and fingers. He always asked me whether I’d like a back rub, and even though I rarely desired one it’s the thought that counts. But I never could put up with his massive refrigerators! He would bring them everywhere. One time at a party the only way I could get around his giant refrigerator was by requesting curtly, ‘hey pal, this carpet isn’t a graveyard for your firkin’ dying fridges! Get this shit aside, or I start in with my ‘crow’!’ Now ‘crow’ is slang for crow bar, which is like all names a metaphor. The words said, it was all up to his action, his willingness to acquiesce.

Clark said to me in Latin ‘quaero una femina bona’ and as if that wasn’t enough he was willing to fly me to Tallahassee to show me his fleet of Oldsmobiles. I said I’d love to go but I was busy that year with other things, like my hair do, which required constant love and attention. Clark looked disappointed, so to make it up to him I pushed his childhood enemies off a cliff.

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