Ok, so even though my house key clearly says ‘Yale’ on it, I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to believe I am a high-brow prep prospect? Probably smart since despite my aged ‘Good n’ Plenty’ torso, my mental acumen is more closely aligned to that of a ‘Tootsie Roll Midgee’. In any case you’d make a good cop, because this week, in my brush clearing ‘honey-dos’, I must have run up against some poison ivy ‘honey bunches of DON’TS’!
Oh not to worry, it isn’t too bad. As Elmer Fudd might say ‘I have one wittle weeping wound just wight of my weenus'. Oh geez, before you start giggling like a hormonal white-gloved Whiffenpoof, dust off that dictionary and understand that my pointy head is aimed at my elbow, not my zipper-D-doo-dah! The heart of the tell-tale ivy inflammation is a little bigger than a quarter but itches almost as much as whole silver dollar.
I’m actually proud to be a member of the scratchiest of glee fraternities from a major ivy. If people annoy me or I don’t want to do something, I simply hang my wing in their face and threaten to effortlessly exfoliate . Except for those rubber-gloved TSA airport cops and proctologists, most of the time my victims take the hint and steer clear of my business. It’s too bad though because I would’ve liked to shown them my leafy green diploma. It’s a ‘Scratch n’ Sniff’ sheepskin of course because I majored in allergens and without a doubt, I have truly earned a B.S. degree from the Ivy LEAVES.
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