For my Crack Skull Bob resurrection I chose this entirely misleading collage of images from the Grow Christmas party to lead the more gullible among you to assume that I am not only a crazy party animal but one of this town's movers and Shakers, whereas the real situation is that if a true invitee's husband weren't a surly antisocial type, I never would have gotten in.
Sad, isn't it? That at this late date--and oh, the date feels later every day--I should still be chasing the approbation of those of you, and you know who you are, who lounge indolently in the higher reaches of the social ladder, nibbling so smugly on your metaphorical foie gras, the Carr's Water Cracker crumbs lightly falling on my fevered brow like a gentle snow as I chew angrily on my stale Puffy Cheeto and curse the day--
Okay, reset. Here I am, not 15 minutes into the revival of CSB and careening yet again into the ditch as you in the back seat brace yourselves for yet another horrific collision. I just don't seem to be able to drive in a straight line any more.
At any rate, the ultrasonic waves generated by the sound system served to filter out the out-of-it oldsters who were vibrated to the periphery of the action, where we found relative quiet in the kitchen, which ought to tell you something.