(xx) Front Porch Swing

Well sir, it's late afternoon as we approach the small. Here on the front porch we find Mr. and Mrs. Victor go. And he's gazing discontentedly at a heap of chains and a wooden swing to which his wife has just directed his attention.

You didn't drag this junk up from the basement by yourself, did you? Naturally not. Well, kid. Mr. Gunplof. Why didn't he help you hang this swing while he was a budgie? What? Nothing. Goodness, I am muttered to yourself anymore.

I couldn't get myself. See, I love myself. Victor's a sweetheart, I crudely. Victor sure is. Well, gonna take off your coat and put up the swing? Seems to me I'm ordered about in a highly despotical manner.

I'll say. Since I'm the party who's saddled with the task of putting up the swing, strikes me I should choose my own time for putting up the swing. What goes if the port keeps said to the port browning when he held a dandelion under his chin to determine whether or not he liked but it?

I believe history tells us that he chuckled foolishly and twisted his clap into a damn wad. And then he... He had jobs get handled around here. All talk and no action. You say you ought to choose your own time.

Well, when would that time have been? Next Christmas? Look up and down the block. Every living soul and their brothers got their porch swing hot but us. Every living soul and their brother. And here it is, the summer half over.

I'll have to quarrel with that statement, Dr. Sleepch. The summer is not half over. We've barely gotten our teeth into the summer. Harken back to the port peeps again, just to point up and round out my point.