Unfortunately, cumulative guilt over the failed attempt to rescue Fredo (the moose) and an unfortunate event in my childhood involving a lit candle, a banana peel, a can of hairspray and an ant farm has caused me to temporarily suffer a rare psychological condition in which I am unable to communicate in any medium other than crayons. In fact, this post was transcribed for me by a sympathetic nun who passed my table at an outdoor cafe as I was composing it with my last crayon, "Burnt Umber."
That being the case, I'm afraid I will be incommunicado until either my condition eases or I am able to replenish my supply of Crayolas, to which purpose the other nuns at the "Sisters of the Holy Shit! Is That Bishop Colson in Pantyhose?" convent have graciously offered to contribute from their mostly unused petty cash allocation for silk stockings and garters (the identity of the person who spent the missing portion of that account seems self-evident).
I have to wait for Lent, though, so it might be a while.
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