19 November 2016

Come on, Mrs. Dalrymple, Stop Stealing My Combs


"Come on, Mrs. Dalrymple, stop stealing my combs.  This is the fourth one since Tuesday.  I don't care about the NSA spying scandal, stop stealing my effin combs.  No–  What?  Not Sean Puffy Combs, I mean my hair combs you bitty old nimrod.  Those combs have a permanent place in my collection.  They have a value to me that goes far beyond what they might 'fetch' on the open market, which by the way is a not inconsiderable sum.  And yes as a matter of fact I do use them, to comb my hair.  Yeah yeah there's that mess in the Congo, it's terrible and my heart goes out to those people, truly – but it's no excuse for you to steal my combs.  I've spent the better part of a lifetime assembling those combs.  There is not an insignificant comb in the whole pile.  Every single tooth on every one of those combs is important to me (dammit).  What?  Yes, the teeth on my combs are fine, thanks, it is indeed a fine-toothed comb collection.  It's a helluv'an ensemble.  If you look up comb collection in the dictionary, you'll see a picture of mine, or at least of one closely resembling mine.  Remove a single comb and the whole is missing something integral, irretrievable.  And you have now removed four, which means that four integral, irreplaceable things must first be retrieved and then be replaced.  Four of my precious combs, Mrs. Dalrymple.  Here I be, beseechin thee: Stop stealing my combs!"
Conclusion of the foregoing.

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