Contrary to my natural milieu, I found myself in a barnyard. I did not know how that came to pass; too often the events in my life unfold as if I am in a Eugene Ionesco play. Anyway, while gingerly going around amid the noise and other matters, I encountered a pack animal with a supercilious attitude.
"Miss, for what purpose have you come? Have you received entry papers from our owner? This is most irregular!"
I indicated that I really did not; but that maybe I could be excused this time, as "I had come a far piece and wanted to see things, or whatever."
Thereupon he criticized my grammar, and my dress. (I was wearing Daisys, a baby tee, and flip-flops.) He suggested that visitations to the barnyard were by appointment only; and that they were booked well through October. He further accused me of impertinence in continuing the conversation though we had not been properly introduced. He informed me that the farm had a dress code, and visitors were expected to follow it. Finally, he faulted me on my perfume; declaring that the barnyard was "a scent-free environment a la San Francisco."
Finally, it dawned upon me: I was dealing with a pompous ass.
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