Cashew City is the perfect place to have a snack (if you like cashews—which, the sudden, you must!) and catch up with different PL’ers. You see, it’s a gathering joint of sorts.
Now, I got embroiled in an interesting conversation. The conversation was about skipping, jogging, and running.
“What, eh?” Ruber asked, his one eyebrow twitching a bit. “Don’t you like me point?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Ratherquite said. “Jogging is the best form of exercise one could possibly have.”
Now, the red-haired lady, who was sitting on Mr. Ratherquite’s left, and the blond-curled lady, who was sitting on his right, seemed shocked with that assessment.
“But, Mr. Ratherquite,” the red-haired lady said. “Running is by far better for a person’s cardiovascular system.”
Mr. Ratherquite chuckled again, and patted her hand. “Not at all, dear. You’re completely wrong.”
“No, no, no,” Sandra Salami said (she was sitting across from Mr. Ratherquite), “she has an excellent point.”
Mr. Ratherquite smiled. It was a belittling smile, too. “No, she doesn’t.”
Sandra was just as obstinate. “Yes, she does.”
The ladies both giggled. Mr. Ratherquite’s ladies, that is.
“I’m with Sandra,” Ruber announced.
“Me too,” Schwarz Tauptinker said. “Your points are all chicky.” He was looking at Mr. Ratherquite.
Mr. Ratherquite shook his head. “You’re all just ganging up on me just to gang up. And that’s rude and quite crude.”
Now, up to this point, I’d been quiet, but I decided to say:
“Now see here, here’s how it is, you should know: Little girls and boys skip about (or a very vicious older man might do that) and people who don’t want to jog, sprint. And people who don’t want to sprint, jog.”
I think everyone seemed to agree with that.
Except Mr. Ratherquite. “You’re wrong, dear P.VJ…”
“No, he’s not,” Sandra said. I don’t think she really likes Mr. Ratherquite.
“Tell you what,” Schwarz put in, “we’re all right in different ways.”
“Now, how is that possible?” Ruber asked.
Schwarz laughed. “It’s not.”
“I oughta beat your eyes in!”
“Chickit!” Schwarz exclaimed. “You do that and I’ll beat your eyes in!”
“Enough fighting!” Mr. Ratherquite called out suddenly. “The fact is what the fact is. Skipping is far better for one that either jogging or running.”
“Hold on a for an hour!” I called. “You changed! Before you said jogging was the best.”
Mr. Ratherquite went red. “Did I?”
The ladies both nodded.
“The fact is what the fact is,” Schwarz reminded.
And Mr. Ratherquite left.