Ahem. It is Valentine’s Day.
I find it quite unacceptable that you have not come to see me.
You claim to love me. It’s Valentine’s Day. Do the math.
Strike that. I will do the math for you. I do not trust the human public education system.
If L = mass of love claimed, and V = 1/365, Then G would represent a ‘floating’ factor, giving us an equation that looks something like this:
(L + V) x a factor of G136*= 20 pounds of carrots, minimum.
*(please assume guilt to the 136th power)
If you must be away, consider this word carefully: delivery.
I am not asking for carrots in a red, heart-shaped box, or a dozen long-stemmed carrots nestled in white baby’s breath. The manifestation of your love for me does not have to be fancy, pretty, or expensively arranged. It only need be pleasantly edible.
I’m a simple, industrial-plastic kind of guy.
Perhaps the visual aid below, of what I look like when off-roading, will jog your memory:
Please get the guy from Palace of Fruit to schlep the sack to my paddock.
Humph. I bet Woodrow gets cookies. I bet Bella scratches his back.
I bet Bella shows up.
P.S. Miss Smokey would appreciate a can of tuna for padding this out on the keyboard. Put it on my expense account.