Tilting at Windmills

Recently, an acquaintance—whose name I do not want to remember—accused me of having lost my mind. This, he said, is the predictable result of too little reading and far too much time at the keyboard. He said the satirical monologues I've left strewn about my blog are proof enough of that, and suggested I take up a more worthwhile pastime. He recommended collecting spent .22 cartridges, or seashells. I've never seen any seashells around here, nor a sea for that matter. I've seen plenty of the other kind up on the hillside where people go to test their marksmanship on abandoned appliances and cans, so I may have a go at that.

But there's work to be done in the meantime. Although I'm sure they haven't gone unnoticed, no one seems to be doing anything about the accumulation of wind turbines. Soon every unoccupied square of land will harbor at least one of those monsters, and yet no one seems to know who's putting them there. I've been told they're supposed to make the wind blow, but I haven't seen the proof of that yet. My German friend Panzer thinks they're pretty, but this is art?

It's suspicious, that's what. In my heart, I know there's only one sure way to handle this kind of situation, and that's with good old-fashioned chivalry. Horses frighten me, but I don't really need one of those because I can run pretty fast. I found an old suit of armor in the dumpster, so I figure I can get through those blades without losing my arms and legs.

All I need now is a greyhound and a helmet, and I'll be off.