|"Just call me 'Mr. Spresso,' Mr. Hoomin."|
Everybun is doing well. There's even a hit of Fall in the air. Somebun up there dialed down big broiler in the sky and humidity dropped as well. In the mornings, my hoomin reads to me as he studies, and I'm sure I'll have a bald spot on my head from all the head rubs.
Wait, Mr. Hoomin, read it again.
Read what again, Mr. Spresso? The "Enroute Spacing Program?
Yes, that one.
Sure, "Enroute Spacing Program - A program designed to assist exit sector in achieving the required in-trail spacing."
There you go, Mr. Hoomin! Change one letter in that paragraph, and you have yourself a story.
Right, you let that pineapple ferment before you ate it, did you, Mr. Spresso?
I'm serious. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Hoomin. Halloween is coming, and you could use a story for that occasion, couldn't you?
Sure I could. OK, humor me, Mr. Spresso, will ya?
I'm starting to feel disappointed, Mr. Hoomin; "The required en-trail spacing." Got it? If you space those en-trails properly, you will have some left for a garter. And I don't want any credit for that one. We never spoke about it, and I don't know you, you understand, Mr. Hoomin.
It's a bit of a stretch, don't you think, Mr. Spresso?
Don't push it, Mr. Hoomin.
We'll keep you posted,