A March Madness Sunday

Sometimes I type very slowly in the hope that a new sentence will come to me before I finish the one I'm on. Rarely happens though.

I've just polished off a magnificent, spicy, cheese omelet, three strips of crisp bacon and a slice of zarsamora jellied toast. This spectacular repast was prepared and served by the unchallenged king of the Sunday breakfast, a man whose culinary skills defy description due to the lack in English of words comparable to sounds like yechk and bleck, a man who carries on each and every Sunday through thick and thin pancakes and french toast, a man who, yes it must be said, would rather go out and was heretofore unheralded because of the shortage of heralds in this part of the world, a man known to all who know him, namely, Yers Trewly.

That's all right. Don't get up. Hold the applause. Oh please, you're too kind.

Mother Nature, Father Time, Aunt Jemimah and Say Uncle have conspired to present we humble recipients with a beautiful day here in Boqueteland. The sun is around somewhere, the sky is overhead and predictably blue, the grass is green and from what I can tell, nothing looks out of place except RTGFKAR who is over there building a fire to burn coffee stumps which is my job. I think he's just ducking the dishes. Woowoo Charly is out playing in the dirt with garden tools and looks darn cute in her bluejeans and white tee. I tell her every day she should wear a bonnet, but she adamantly refuses, saying bonnets are for old ladies. She clings, instead, to her baseball cap with its Jack Daniels logo. I'm over here in the office part of my room-with-a-view and I can see forever. Yes I can so, I just have to close my eyes. Gus, our noble defender of home and hearth is napping off his share of omelet and bacon in a dog bed under the desk and at my feet. He likes to stay close in case I need back-up and also because I occasionally drop edible things.

So there you have the setting and now for the plot.

Will Yers Trewly actually step forth into the great, not so great and sometimes downright lame outdoors to catch a bit of sun, a breath of air and a modicum of exercise? Or will he instead opt for the reclining sofa, the remote control, the beer, the chips, the Conference Basketball Championships and The PGA? And, more importantly, does he deserve the latter fate while Woowoo weeds and RTGFKAR burns?

Damn straight he does. He made the breakfast didn't he?