The alphabetical aardvark
Argh! says the aardvark, as he dribbles accidentally some reddish ackee juice offhandedly and aggravatingly onto his vest while relaxing in his bathhouse. He was distracted, remembering last winter’s skiing as part of his hajj, trekking down the valley toward the sacred city. Immersing himself in the pleasant memories of last year, however, cannot break his gloom, his disappointment at not having reached Raqqa. The current situation is possibly much better, filling the vacuum of his boring life. In his skivvies at the powwow that evening, surely now that he has discontinued his Vioxx injections, he expects to bring his audience to tears by reading some of Omar Khayyam’s poetry, and then dazzle them with his tap dancing.