we were smoking ziggurats outside the arby's, when troble happened -- as it usually does. a carefully-kept automaton approached my compatriot and i and demanded to know what we were doing. without waiting for an answer, she let us know that the issue (aka her fucking problem) was that we were smoking ziggurats outside the arby's. i explained to her: "madame, it is raining, this ledge provides shelter, and rain gets in the windows if we smoke in the horseless mirage. thus, we have sought shelter under the ledge of noble arby's, through which we shall smoke out this rainbromonium. can you not see my pants are wet? are your pants not wet? clearly, you see, it is the sane choice."
she seemed nonplussed, but still irate. "i have no idea what you're talking about!" she snapped
sea spells by the sheshore
that did it. "you see, ma'am," i kindly explained, "i'm afraid that if you can't sense the sense, then we can't talk the talk."
"you're making nonsense! nothing you say makes anysense to me!"
"well, uh.. then fuck off?"
she stared at me for a tense moment, then snorted, about-faced, and stormed inside the arby's, reeking of ziggurat smoke. clearly, that attempt at more succinctly conveying my position had solved the problem. i made a mental note to try and summarize more often
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