Fail Flash Mobs

 Mr. Spock Mulling Over Tiberian Bats

We were shopping at Lakeside Mall in Utica Saturday.

She-who-must-be-obeyed had ordained that I return a Christmas tree skirt that had become obsolete after 5 days; since she had already filtered through the holiday "espresso machine" (poetic license meant to indicate high pressure stuff) of the "Christmas Department" at Lord & Taylor 3 or 4 times already, she feared they had a mug shot of her near the registers.

I also had to return some trousers. I returned the 38's and bought a wonderful new pair of 36's!

If corduroy could scintillate, the new 36's were a constellation of congratulations for sticking with my dietary regimen since June 30, 2012.
I started on that day, since it was a total fast day for my first colonoscopy. I shall not have to return for 10 years, they said. I hope I have at least 3 or 4 more, then, at a minimum.
(It was also my first time under anaesthetic. They used Propofol, and I woke up looking out the recovery room window at blue skies that seemed to be upon some ethereal planet of two suns and a joyous disposition.)

And I really did not know about the decline and fall of the late Planet Girth... (sorry about that one).
Since I, like Hank Hill, am gluteally challenged, lacking braces or suspenders, my pants seek a local minimum far below my waist. I tend to unravel the long - 30 inches - legs of care, because my pants drag along after me... sort of like a brace of Tiberian bats, as Mr. Spock would put it.
(Did I ever mention that I actually do put on my pants two legs at the same time? I sort of jump into them from the side of the bed... two at a time. I was actually surprised to come across that old saw about "one leg at a time", and thought that the lady that uttered it was "pulling my leg"!)

My mother once again badgered me to try on some of my father's clothes, and I discovered that the 36 waist was a good fit with a bit of room to spare! Glory be! Gloria Patri ! and hallelujah...

As we walked through the mammoth mall, I thought it would be an excellent time for a Fail Flash Mob, which is to say, I could stand there and begin to warble some nondescript song, and my wife could do a bit of a shimmy-thing while we smiled a great, great deal.
Then we would look around, appear to be surprised and distressed, look at our timepieces frequently, as if we were expecting the rest of the flash mob, and wondering where the heck they had disappeared to.

So we would soon wind down like music box ballerinas owned by little girls who had now reached puberty; like we were stuck in storage with Strawberry Shortcake and My Little Pony, and were under-appreciated by an age of Philistines and hormones.
We would shrug and laugh, asking if anyone had seen the rest of the Flash Mob, then someone might treat us to a Starbuck's...

... to recover from that undiscovered flash mob from whose bourne no traveler returned...

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