Sour Grapes

Intermittent bouts of solemnity douse the overall taramasalata stallion festival, though not for lack of trying, as Mr. Finch would tell you over a certain batch of sour grapes (the varietal is not a matter of import at this time). His method for reaching extraction technology milestones may only be described as giddy triumvirates of spellbinding skullduggery punctuated by ornate grandstanding of the second-to-highest order (the highest order being wallaby interferon proceedings that benefit only the best and brightest marsupials of any given generation, whether or not we view that as classist).

Crumpet Festival

Drangled intermittent scratch patterns engulf the otherwise narrative-laden crumpet festival, but you know what? Nobody seems to have noticed that detail in the first place, completely unaware of even why that would ever be considered a big deal at all. When I was a more divisive person, I more than likely would have acted immediately in the form of a lecture or rant to whip them into shape. How dare they maintain their ignorance of such an excruciatingly-crucial detail?! As the years have passed–and time’s been kind to me–I’ve learned when to retreat and let folks have their own little moments in the obscurity of their uninformed worldviews (even when it gets to the point of paining me).

Jesus!!
Will youse make up your minds already?!
I’m starving
and my tea is getting cold.