Farmer H prefers to keep me in the dark. Here's my evidence. Pardon the clunky style of this old post. It was written way back when I first started blogging. You know, before I became the polished author that I am today. If you can't tell the difference, then I sentence you to twelve trips to The Devil's Playground, on the first weekend of each month. And a bonus trip on the day after Christmas.
Here I sit, with only my monitor glow for comfort. No ambient light is leaking in from the Mansion basement proper. That's because we have three (THREE) lights that don't light on both sides, to mangle a statement from the Grinch to little Cindy Lou Who. Normally, the man of the house changes light bulbs. But apparently, unwritten gender rules do not apply to the man of the Mansion.
Because I thought Farmer H might not be aware of my lack of lightitude, I told The Pony to explain the situation. Specifically, I said, "Go tell your dad that three lights are burned out." That's because The Pony is not good in gray areas. Only in black and white. The Pony returned forthwith. I asked what his father had to say about the situation.
Dad said, "Then put in three light bulbs."
That is not pertinent. If I had three light bulbs, I would have left out the middle man, in this case Farmer H, and jumped right to the go-to guy, the #1 son, and told him to put in new light bulbs. The problem is that we don't have three light bulbs just laying around the Mansion. And Farmer H was headed to town within fifteen minutes of the unbearable lightlessness of being, and could have picked some up to be installed another day. But no.
Here I sit. I am thinking of turning on the fake electric fireplace. I can pretend I'm Abe Lincoln, blogging by firelight.