Elephant Thursday.
The goat beast of your desire explodes in the supermarket car park of all your dreams. We have worn the ladies underwear like all our heroes used to, and we have walked that long, lonely, walk to the place where all walking will come to a surprisingly moist end.
How can you wear things like that when what you wear is un-wearable?
But… but… if only and how and why and… what is that over there? And can I have a new one, please?
I do not go down that path because it is The Path Of The Way Of The Path, and I no longer have the ankles for adventure now that my pogo-stick has been smeared with strawberry jam by the urban terrorists from Welshpool who wish to set up a strict fundamentalist String-Worshiping state in Tewksbury. Besides that, the batteries in my torch need replacing.
As we now know, though, all of those long things are really much shorter than they seem. There is no goat here and the donkey will only laugh at your puny simultaneous-equation solving abilities.
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