Printing Fame and Fortune

Dearest Diary, how I wish I would simply dip you in the free-flowing river of concern that is my all too human heart (and its associated veins and capillaries.) But alas, I cannot, as it would hurt like the Hardy (worse than the Dickens) and might prove incredibly unsanitary.

I must tell you, Father borrowed my most favoritest pen yester-morning, saying he needed it for Check-Writing Time down at The Mill. I've not seen it since, but I pray its restorative righteousness served Poppa well and kept his hand from cramping too terribly. And so, I must commit my considerings to your ever-accepting pages with the ink of my 2nd favorite pen -- a greenish-gold Mont Blanc Meisterstück upon which I have impaled jauntily a flame-haired troll doll. Oh, how I delight in watching that blissfully happy little face bob and sway with every dotted I and crossed T.

But enough about my implement. Instead, I will tell you about my latest adventure. Or dare I say, business venture.

So you might recall -- might! nobody recalls better than you, my Bound Plains of Scribed Experience! -- how I bemoaned the lack of a suitable audience to my daily fit, yes? Well, I have solved that problem entirely, Diary. And in doing so, perhaps I will win a loving glance from Lady MacDulce ... or maybe a delighted blink-and-stare from the Touched One Nextdoor, eh? So here's what I've done ..

While Father was away at The Mill, I calculated just how long he would be engaged in the writing of Worker Money and determined that I had just enough time to "borrow" the printee-press he keeps hidden behind the third mahogany bookshelf -- it opens up when you give his copy of "Think And Grow Richerer" a little jiggle. I figured he wouldn't mind, since he is always saying I need to get out more. Well, the "more" is often silent, but I know it is there.

And so, knowing how popular Poppa is when he hands out the little slips of paper he prints, I took it upon myself to make a few creative changes to the messy little metal bricks that make the machine go. Using a letter opener, I turned the face of that silly bewigged little man into one more like my own. Then I drew a fine picture of Benson swimming across the lawn of some dumb old building. And printed in big capitals on each side:

"COME SEE MY FIT! FITSIES AT DUNCANTON!"

Proud of my witty design, I set the steam-powered machine into motion. In seconds, it was spewing forth these little paper items, sending them flying all over the room. "Come back here you!," I cried to them, 'cause maybe they can hear a lot like you do, Diary. Catching several, I stacked them and said to myself, "These little fliars are just stupendulous!"

What will I do with them, Diary? Just you wait. This evening, I'm going to actually go into town! That's right, I'm going to load up good ol' Clyde and we're going to roll into the municipal square, right as the town clock chimes a fourth time, for today is the day for "Taunt The Poor A Bit After Four!"

I'll hand my fliars to passing roustabouts, wastrels and gruntlings, inviting them all to come around tomorrow afternoon to witness the bestest fit they've ever seen. They'll talk to their neighbors (or to whatever you call the person that sleeps next to you in the alleyway) and the buzz will be so profound that surely one or both of my objets de affection will be among those who attend tomorrow's 2pm "performance!"

Yours anticipatorially,
Y.B.P.M.

P.S. -- Still unknown to woman, but soon known to all ... though perhaps not Biblically.