Abalone – WHARVED

Spätburgunder

Speckled timberjacks innovate in the leanest and meanest of times, over all the whinging and cringing, crybabies taking turns beating their chests as though abalone were as valuable as diamonds (although, in our faery-less global community, that sentiment should be closer to truth than it currently stands).

Sentiment breaks backs as a matter of fact. You could say that the finer the rampage, the cheaper the glint recommended by the turnstile technician–at least that’s what I’ve come to understand as a giblethead in society’s white pages.

Although, the sorrow contained within a single spätburgunder can hardly be measured with a doughnut and Jeopardy rerun (even a Ken Jennings episode where he wins $75K, sorry to say).

CI

The stalwart lemon scoundrel pimped out his favorite seashell collection for a day of ease at the local confetti merchant’s egregious beach house.

Seven gin and tonics and a piña colada graced his lips before the evening was through, and his precious chest of abalone changed hands for the first time in fourteen years.

A celebration was in order. Confetto McFetti called up his favorite mariachi band and lit all the loose champagne corks ablaze with his trusty acetylene torch. The neighbors had nothing to say about the festivities; they owed that eccentric man next door a couple of favors.