Jeremy...or Jere7my...I don't *hate* the Fullers; I reserve that
for only a very few on a very short list (those still surviving). When I
think of the Fullers, I kinda think of Neice Bertrice, who lives with her
family on some nice suburban street, with her Uncle Horace who lives in
the basement and collects paper sacks and string and complains about that
damn Roosevelt, and only comes up once every second Thursday to piss in
the cassarole and set the cat on fire...and when Mom and Dad look over at
old Uncle Horace, and wonder if maybe he might need a little assistance,
ain't quite the fellow he used to be, she stamps her foot and cries and
shouts at them and asks why they're being so mean to sweet Uncle Horace,
and they should leave him alone and stop saying bad things about him,
after which she races upstairs to her blue bedroom and slams the door,
hugging her pink bunny and saying over and over that Uncle Horace is fine,
just FINE, while downstairs the cat is smoldering again.

And I think that qualifies as the longest sentence I've ever written
on line. Or whoever I am.

jms (2:25 a.m.)