I

.... he stammered. She turned on her stiletto heels, marched out the bedroom door, grabbed the car keys and peeled out of the driveway. He drank his cold coffee and shuffled back.

He dropped the coffee cup in the sink and sat on the sofa to turn on the news. "... Paul is dead" said the newsreader "or is it all a hoax?". The screen turned to fuzzy snow and

Ron smiled wrily. The brown outs were becoming more frequent. Soon very soon, they would wish they'd heeded his warning. The rumors of his death were seeded. Ron Paul's bunker

flickered in and out of observable illumination, which only made Ron Paul happier. He was unaware that some kid was merely turning the lights on and off. What Ron didn't know

could fill the Grand Canyon. He was a prime grade dunderhead. A royal mud stauncher. A proverbial snot wrencher. A bloob. A big billowy wavy bloob. That's what Ron was.

It was because of Ron's Dad. He was the ArchDuke of Useless Drivel. His main argument was that if people would just use a sunflower seed sized dollop of toothpaste instead of a pea

then over a lifetime they'd save enough money to buy a week's all-inclusive holiday in a Spanish hotel. Ron's Dad booked us on the coach to Benidorm. Oh God. I can't take sunburn &

paella & topless women on the beach all at the same time. It's just too too much for my senses to handle! As Ron & I lay on the Benidorm beaches of Spain, we thought we saw Sylvia

Plath's ghost walk by, her head still buried in an ethereal oven. clad in polka-dot bikini. We didn't have the heart to tell her it was a nude beach - we'd let Hemingway tell her.