And when I say pants, I mean trousers, but my brain is perhaps a tad more American than I would like.
I was searching for a shirt, a large comfortable one. There was no such thing to be found anywhere. Everything in every closet was pants. And when I say pants, I still mean trousers. Everything is pants, I cried in despair. And lo! everything was pants.
I finally found a shirt, but it was neither as large nor as comfortable as I had hoped. But I had to make do, because everything else was pants. The end.
This account was almost as exciting as The Silmarillion, I daresay. By which I of course mean gut-wrenchingly boring.
By God, that book is boring.
1 comment:
If ever Tolkien should'a kept something to himself, it was Silmarillion. Actually, he more or less did, after his publisher rejected it. Blame son Christopher for dragging that posthumous chestnut from the churchyard, lookin' to make a buck off Dad's Hobbitses, instead of seeking meaningful employment as a WalMart greeter, like the rest of us.
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