“Taking pictures of the flowers?” asked the neighbors.
“No, the penguins,” Pete and I said in unison.
We’ll be lucky to find ourselves in the doctor’s office tomorrow, wearing at least some pants and murmuring, “Lovely to see you again. We left the mime and all three penguins at home this time. Hard to tell them apart after parties. You don’t mind, do you?”
In other news: Poor Impulse Control is nine years old. Guess I should quit drinking its college fund, huh?