The Keys To Your Ferrari

Before work every morning, I walk around in circles, read the toothpaste ingredients, try on three different coats, hunt for my keys. To offset this and get my shapely fanny to work reasonably on time, I lay out my clothes in the bathroom, make my breakfast and lunch and pack my book bag or paniers at night. Last night, I dropped my clothes on a shelf in the bathroom and skipped off to do something fanciful, because as you know I am pretty goddamn carefree. This morning, as I put on my shirt, the collar was wet. I hadn’t noticed, but the container of disinfecting wipes was open and through the magic of capillary action, liquid climbed out of the container and was now resting against my neck. Since overly clean was the exact opposite of dirty, I’m still wearing the shirt and my lemony freshness may or may not clash with my grapefruity eau de toilet. Fragrant!

Apropos of nothing, Joe Biden did exactly what I have been shouting from the rooftops must be done, specifically to Dick Cheney, but Republicans generally: undermine their authority and zhush their gravitas with a confident game of Point & Laugh. They can’t stand it when we can see the emperor’s union suit.

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