in stitches

Once upon a time, a young boy named RICHH decided to
go visit his mother superior.  "What do you think my
parakeet would drink when it's tired," she asked his
companion, a flying marshmallow man.  "Indubitably a
screwdriver rammed through his cage would provoke an
earnest appraisal of his past trauma," he cogitated.
The nun nodded solemnly, adding on her fingers while
she thought.  "If I were you, would you be my lesson
or my guidebook," she asked, with only the slightest
flourish of her armband towards RICHH.  Startled, he
cried out in fear, "I know not the reality of error-
correction in topologically unbalanced networks, but
mark you my tongue, all crosses lead to more."  Hurt
by the admonishment, the marshmallow fellow took off
his buzzer and scratched his finger.  "Maybe we will
only overcome our anniversaries after all is over in
the new moon," he decided.

The moral of the story is: Knowledge of the seasons,
not the seasonings, will save you a stitch in thyme.

buzzard
My apologies for playing the free-association
game by myself while wired and blind.