And Ne’er the Twain Shall Meet

(Or is it Clemons?)

“Nyah nyah! Your name rhymes with lemons!” said the alarmingly irritating and pimply young lad.

“Doesn’t,” he said, smoking furiously on his pipe in spite of also being an irritatingly young lad sans pimples. For now. Also, even though he was twelve, he had a large white bushy mustache.

The other fellow balled up his fists. “…Does!” Was probably expecting a better class of retort, but found hisself resorting to what amounted to nursery-level exchanges.

With finality: “Does.” Twirling mustachios was a new and eminently satisfying activity. If he must say so hisself. And he did. The other boy looked like he was going to cry. Maybe he would. Sure enough, there went the waterworks.

Helped along by that stomp to his toes acourse.

He wandered off, leaving the crying boy to his dusty tears. He was going to write an international best seller, no doubt about it! Yessir, just as soon as he finished whitewashing this whale.

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