I will concede one fact. I am a son of a bitch. But there agreement with your incoherent mumbling vanishes like a popcorn fart .

I don’t remember any clinical training in your background that would qualify you to diagnose dementia. And in my case qualified professionals have concluded that I see the world in new ways. That’s not dementia. And rather than playing loosely with the truth, I just see the drama in life that others miss. I also been told I have an uncanny ability to make what others deem as reasonable sound preposterous. Now, having torn gaping holes in your fragile argument, back to the case at hand.

The warning about rats in the toilet came about when my cousin Larry sat down the toilet in our guest room to relieve himself of excess waste. He picked up a magazine, settled in and felt a bump on his butt. Then another. The third bump stung. That’s when he looked down into the toilet and saw the rat – a big one. Larry came to the kitchen to report that he’d been bitten in the butt by a rat in our toilet. We asked him if it had broken then skin. He wouldn’t show us. And I suspect it did leave a scar.

Now, sight unseen, I can imagine Jamie has a nice butt. Which I was trying to protect by issuing the warning. And knowing of your feckless past with women I didn’t want a small imperfection to freak you out. And knowing that frogs in your area can be even more dangerous than rats, I am thrilled that my earlier warnings continue to keep Jamie on the alert.

I miss our Sunday brunches. They gave me some hope that I was able to make a little headway with you. Happy trails.