“Indeed, Bartolomeo — Bush will be lucky to escape the fate of Mussolini! Adieu, dear fellow!” I laughed, and clicked off my cell phone.
Little Ikey entered the room. “What’s up, Master Rocky?” he squeaked.
“Just talking to my editor Bartolomeo Pistola, young Ikey,” I replied.
In walked J., shirtless and thus exposing his quite anadonistic torso.
“What is that on your chest, Foole?” I queried.
“A pimple,” J. said.
“Dear fellow, that is not a pimple, it is a boil, a carbuncle! It is so big you should name it!” I cried.
“Let’s call it Vesuvius!” little Ikey squeaked.
“Maybe you should buy a leash for Vesuvius,” I suggested.
“Vesuvius is kind of handsome, in his own way,” Ikey squeaked. “Maybe take him to Parisian and buy him a wool suit.”
“Maybe Vesuvius should get a piercing!” I chortled.
“If my pimple got a piercing, it would bust open,” J. said pissily.
I grew somber. “Doesn’t Vesuvius’ fate mirror the feline condition?” I asked. “Vesuvius never asked to come into this world, yet here he is. As a young carbuncle, he was strong and mighty, but now he is aged, soft and full of pus. Later, he will die, and no one will remember him.”
“Poor Vesuvius,” Ikey softly squeaked.
There was silence.
I walked over to the junk-drawer and got a needle. “Assisted suicide is the only rational choice,” I intoned. “J., lie on the sofa. Ikey, get the alcohol and gauze. Let Doctor R. do his business!”
J. screamed, “Screw you, screw you both!” and fled from the room.
Ikey held his stomach and laughed. “He’s a stone-cold fool!”
“I guess it’s false to say that a Foole and his pimple are soon parted!” I quipped.