Knife

When I was a kid one of the tools my father had on the rack in the basement was a WWII German paratrooper's knife. No, he didn't wrestle it out of the hands of a bodyguard on the day he killed Hitler. My father was in Europe in WWII, slept in ditches, ate C rations, but he flew a typewriter, if you know what I mean. The Battle of the Bulge was that desperate that Patton marched him and every other warm body he could find toward the lines. Be thankful the battle ended before my father got to the line, or you might not be reading this blog. Or you might be reading it in German.

I think he found the knife in a cave. It was wood and metal and it operated well.

One of the things he said was that everyone was required to carry this waterproof 'air mattress.' But, he said, no one slept on it -- and everyone knew it was a bodybag.

Jansenist left early Friday morning, so the last I saw of him was Thursday night. He's an amazing house guest: He slept on the fold-out sofa, as several other guests have -- but he's the only one who folds up the sofa and even his sheets and blankets every day.

The forces of the Evil One have been massing for an attack, but a series of small-unit actions in the rear have kept him at bay. Now that he's in a fixed position, today I plan to bring in the fast movers -- Citurcel, probiotic and ox bile -- to supplement the daily barrage of mineral oil. Only unconditional surrender will be accepted.