March 27, 2012

My father was an unrepentant ptarmigan, my mother a card-carrying bat. Raised in a snowbound cave, I naturally craved justice, and found none. Therefore, it, and when I say it I mean the local death pig, behooved me. Behooved, I made my way into the world of crime via baking. I discovered soon enough that the road to Hell is paved with pie. So yes, I drove the sleigh. I melted my way into the vault. I stole your precious document. And I’d do it again, I tell you. HA HA HA! I fully and completely writhe in sweet victory while telling you I did it. What grain of regret I felt was washed away in the subsequent fashion show. But that’s neither here nor there, for when there is here, here is there. I’m insane, you say. Really? Oh, really? Well, maybe a little. But why am I turning myself in now after such a long time spent free and clear representing cowboys? I don’t know. Perhaps, in a way, I’m really turning myself out, not in. Perhaps I am a dream or a breadbox. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been elected to Congress.

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