Success smells like smoke to Mike?

Well, here we go with more Mike. He posted this bit last nite in a comment:

April,

Little sis. Are you going to stop reading my posts because of this ridiculous rule you have set for the people who participate in your Blog? Very well then. I can fight back. I was going to tell you the whole story of the excitement at my home, but I think instead I will give it to you in installments. So there. Nyah. Nyah.

Now I think about it, that’s probably not a punishment for you, since you like telling stories in installments. By the way, don’t think of asking Deanna for her version of the whole story, because she heard how you were supporting Becky McGuire’s awful story about her birth, and so now you are on her naughty list. Mom is on Team Deanna, since she finds the idea her grandchildren are somehow related to Becky McGuire, quite abhorrent. So, don't bother asking her either.

Despite your unfortunate choice to believe Becky, I will tell you what happened--the first part anyway. After making sure Deanna got my daughter calmed down from the excitement of Christmas, I went up to my attic office to finish my book, and Deanna followed me up. She started rubbing her hands on my shoulders and said, “Come to bed, Michael.” Normally, this would be enough motivation to get me to bed, but for some reason my darling Deanna’s left arm seemed to bear a little resemblance to the left arm of a certain spinach-swilling sailor man, and frankly my left shoulder was in too much pain to consider Deanna anything but a source of agony. So, I said, “I’m so close to finishing this book, Dee….Give me another hour.” Deanna agreed, and when I saw her go, I saw she was in one of her more masculine appearance days, and I had some regrets about turning her down.

But the deed was done, and there was nothing for it, but the “TICK-TAPPITA TICK-TAPP TAPPITA TAP-TICK-TAPP-TICK-TAP, TAP-TICK” of the typewriter. You know someday, I am going to have to write a book on the proper punctuation for onomatopoeia.

But that day will have to wait, because I was filled with joy and elation that “It’s done! I can’t believe it’s done! This is my first real manuscript.” I spent a lot of time shuffling and reshuffling those gorgeous pages of ink and paper, while “THUMP THUMP” ing it on the table. You know, little sis, there is almost nothing better than shuffling and “THUMP THUMP” ing manuscripts on the table, and people do complain less about it, if it is your own manuscript you are “THUMP THUMP” ing.

Having completed this momentous task, over which I had laboured and sweated over for years, I descended the stairs, and lifted my hand to shake the hand of my fair muse, Sheilagh Shaugnessy, who appeared to me there. I said in a loud voice, since I was on the stairs and surely no one could hear me, “It is done, fair muse! Oh, that I should inhale the sweet smell of success!” For some reason, I was expected the smell of cinnamon buns, but when I reached the landing of the stairs from the attic, the smell of success I smelled didn’t have anything to with cinnamon or buns. Actually, I smelled smoke, 2 distinct strands of smoke to be exact, clearly moving through the air.

This is where my installment ends today. I will write more to you tomorrow, and you will have to judge for yourself whether or not you want to read it.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Mike, my rule is NOT ridiculous. It's called having good MANNERS! I don't know how U can fail 2 C that. So, foax, what do U think Mike did first, save his manuscript or his kidz? We shall C. For the kidz' sake, I hope Dee thot fast, whether she's really Becky's cousin or not. (And I don't know Y believe what Becky sed abt this puts me on a naughty list. Geez, just do the friggin' DNA and get it over with.)

Apes