Never Mind.....

Just because 99% of the conscientious souls in the world are indulging in exigent inquiry on "meaning" and "purpose" of life, the remaining 1% should not let the irreverent inquiry on bathrooms to slide away into oblivion. Therefore, I took it upon me in the capacity of a cack-handed exegete to round up the "meaning" and "purpose" of bathroom-share in relationships.

There, there, a forward-looking man would have preempted a guest-bathroom redirection upsetting the bug-eyed girl eager to check out the cabinets in the master bathroom originated from the modest IKEA or the deluxe Harrods. A woman should be leery of the objet d'art strewn in his bathroom than bedroom: the thread count of his towels, the fabric of the shower curtain, and the smell of the handwash. These knick-knacks cue on his fine taste. Later, the woman would not want to erupt into an unforeseen tantrum at her man for forgetting the anniversary of their first kiss only to scuttle into a dingy bathroom to sob her agony and anguish at his lapse amidst an inimical towel that does not soak up her tears or a feeble curtain rod that does hold her wrath. It is important for a woman to examine the robustness of the man's arrangements to enable her for a liberating wail in a bathroom. Different matter, why women prefer to impound themselves in constricted bathrooms to sob and not the vasty bedrooms, given both have latches and locks for baleful immersions.

 

In a way, I have been a happy and precocious child amused with the anxiety and confusion of the adult world since the beginning. The left frontal lobe of the brain like that of Penrod and the temporal lobe like that of Eloise. Whilst my mom would often introduce me to others careworn: Poor creature, so delicate, still and innocent. I would often smirk inward: Poor adults, so gullible, misshapen and confounded. The five-year-old had a heightened sense of vanity and self-assurance that eludes even a fifty-year-old.

 

Oi! I absorbingly vouched to send you a book report of Penrod. In the thick of the humor, decided to forgo 'book report' over 'character report'. I get very obsessed with characters than plots which could be Penrod subverting the Child Round Table play or Mr Carrot aspiring to join the Night Watch in Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett (which I just finished). I will spare you the excitement from Mr Carrot and limit to only Penrod.

Thank you much for introducing me to Penrod! I immensely enjoined the portrayal of that skulking kid. I particularly empathized with the metaphor of 'harassment by adults' on 'vacuum called Penrod".

"One of the hardest conditions of boyhood is the almost continuous strain put upon the powers of invention by the constant and harassing necessity for explanations of every natural act."

"From the street a sound stole in through the open window, and abhorring Nature began to fill the vacuum called Penrod Schofield; for the sound was the spring song of a mouth-organ, coming down the sidewalk"​

The language was quaint with words like "nowise" and "octoroon" and "darkling" and "forenoon" and with playful turn of phrases like "old shoes scuffing syncopations on the side walk".

Penrod was amusing till chapter#6 during and the aftermath of the repulsive pageantry but in chapter#7 that liking evolved as reverence to the kid in me with his dismissive and self-centred yawn.

Rudolph Krauss, across the aisle from Penrod, watched the operation with protuberant eyes, fascinated. Inspired to imitation, he took a piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote "RATS" across the shoulder-blades of the boy in front of him, then looked across appealingly to Penrod for tokens of congratulation. Penrod yawned. It may not be denied that at times he appeared to be a very self-centred boy.
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Penrod should be enforced for study in formative years to cultivate a sense of self-worth and imaginative humor in every kid. I am glad Penrod still happened to me, beyond my adolescence, rather than have missed this underrated handiwork of Booth Tarkington.

 

the streak is over
In an episode Will refers to Grace as "The Susan Lucci of the design world". I looked up the clip of Susan Lucci winning Emmy on her 19th consecutive nomination.

Her name eventually became part of the language, used as an avatar for artists who receive numerous award nominations without a win (e.g., "Peter O'Toole was the Susan Lucci of the Oscars."). After 18 failed nominations, she finally won in 1999. When presenter Shemar Moore announced Lucci's name, stating "the streak is over," the audience erupted in a standing ovation, lasting several minutes. As Lucci took to the stage, cameras caught All My Children co-stars Kelly Ripa and Marcy Walker weeping openly, along with long-time supporter, actress and television host Rosie O'Donnell. Actor Ingo Rademacher was seen bowing in the aisles and talk show host Oprah Winfrey rushing the stage cheering from the wings. -- Wikipedia​

 

Dear Forum Members,

I am not a troll. I am a respected member in the honorable community who has recently been accredited with Virgil's Latin to my tongue-twisting moniker.

This morning I woke up to a shock, a devastating act of betrayal and stabbing pain induced by a friend. She called me Obelix! Why would she do that? I am trying to demystify so please assist me in analyzing this wretched and deplorable instance of woeful cruelty on me. Agreed that my right foot's third toe's second phalange is slightly well-built, but that's it. Could she have slighted me with Obelix over that? She could have inquired and mused and pondered and cogitated along the lines of "Arbuckle and Odie" or "Anna and Olaf" or "Alice and Olive Oyl", where the 'O' sidekick is reed-thin and scattered-brain but, no, she called me "Obelix", the one who fell into a cauldron of herbs and roots and mugwort and whatnot when he was a baby. You might say, but she only intended it as a metaphor, or a fanciful cognate, or a near correspondence, to alliterate the names. Please stay away from the post with such sensible and keen-edged answers. I only want members who can think sinister and fetid with unknowns of the first order, and of the 2nd order in imaginative theories gratifying to me about why she wilfully chose "Obelix" to taunt me over that right foot's third toe's second phalange, which, by the way, on eighth look appears not so distorted and stubby.

Should I sever all my talk with her? Should I avoid her? Should I forgive her for her insolence? I am confused. How do I handle it?

I am tagging daffy duck, betty boop, yogi bear and atomic ant for their expertise consul on this matter, as they earned previous experience of handling such embittered cases.

I have been wailing (blowing her nose) since morning, since I read that abominable post. I am still reeling in shock. I have calmed myself with two burgers, three pies and one large bottle of coke . Please help me. This is driving me crazy and wish to clear my mind for an indulgent lunch later in the day.

Your Rattled,
O for Ouroboros​