We earlier lamented, in lugubrious tones, our utter yachtlessness:
Eheu ! Vae misero mihi !!
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| A few of Dr J's many grandchildren, living in rags in a heartless world |
Many of you kind hearts, taking pity, mailed in these little miniature ships-in-a-bottle, the bottles in question being unfortunately not one of those venerable green-glass housings for single malt, but those winky-twinky plastic shot-of-gin thingies you get on budget airlines, totally tacky, with this little like, quasi ship thingie inside, only it wasn’t like “O my goodness how did the craftsman manage to assemble such a treasure in so tiny a space?”, because the plastic bottles had been visibly sliced open and stuffed with these rinky-dinky crackly-plastic party-favors or Jack-in-the-Box prizes and then re-sealed, not very expertly, with Scotch tape, or in one case with masking tape, which really defeats the whole purpose.
We mentioned our strategy for acquiring said yaught -- I mean yocht -- I mean yacht (dang that’s a tough word to spell!), to wit: just sell tonsandtonsandtonsandtons of books. But so far, we have only managed to sell ounceandounce of books (to which the underpriced weightless Nook and Kindle thingies contribute nary a mite or a mote).
We earlier presented an alternative path to fame and fortune: auctioning off a brand-new, virgin (never used) word of our own devisement, (to wit:)
with bidding to begin at one million (euros or pounds sterling, to taste; no dollars or pesos please). So far the auction action has been, shall we say, disappointing.
So, think about it: All you have to do is get a second mortgage on your house, and maybe sell off a superfluous child or two (which is the Romney Road to Riches, documented here), and YOU could be the owner of your Very Own Word !!!
(Please, no food stamps or second-party checks.)
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