Good morning, my little tax shelters. It is I, Yola, pondering the injustices of the world. Today is Friday. Ah, Friday. Have a little soiree planned for after hours, so I'd better hustle up this post and head over to Jamie's House of Kolor for a rotation. My little cotton socks are freshly laundered, there's an intern with my name written all over him, and another, cold and frosty, is waiting in reserve.
Suppose you want to know what's playing on the toaster. Did I ever mention that the toaster is a custom made solid body appliance that plays nothing but the music of Les Paul? Right now, it's "Whispering."
So anyways, we should all cast our eyes downward for three minutes of prayerful appreciation for the man who brought us everything after Bing Crosby took up golf. The few times Les played with the Femmes over at the Yukon were among the most dreamlike of my life. Really, it's almost like he wasn't even there, just the music of the angels casting a nimbus around the old beer and forty year old tuna sandwiches that you can still sometimes find under the tables next to the shuffleboard. The Femmes tell me he was very polite too. A gentleman. They aren't used to that kind of treatment, so it took a while to calm them down afterwards. But hey, a good time was had by all.
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