Horgan, if you’re reading this (and I can only assume you are, since all three of your iPads are gone), thank you.

From all of us.

Journal, Pfizz is a whizz. (Lester tells me it’s “wiz”. Whatever.) He picked his way into the gear room within half a day. Where we found the ladder.

Which allowed us to pick the deadbolt–yet another model of tumbler lock, we couldn’t help but notice– that Horgan had installed on the top of the front door.

You do love us, Boss!

Cleo wanted to go to the farm to visit Bratworst. We lent her the Hello Kitty purse, a map, a can of tuna, and wished her luck. (Pfizz kept the can opener.)

Lester had other ideas. He wanted his own parachute.

To the recycling bins behind the grocery store! We didn’t just go Dumpster diving. We went deep sea fishing. After hours of revelry, our catch was:

  • Three large black garbage bags, formerly full
  • Twelve sets of plastic six-pack rings
  • One bag of unused cloth diapers (Pfizz thought I was crazy. But I assured him, Lester would need a comfortable harness.)

You may ask what we did with the rest of the time.

Chicken wings don’t talk, and what happens in the Dumpster stays in the Dumpster.

Now we’re back at the house with our supplies. By the time Horgan comes home tomorrow, we expect to have a working prototype. Maybe with the ladder’s help we’ll even get to test it from the roof!

 

 

 

 

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