The Spotted Shirt

It's cold in this house. The Great Plotnik World Headquarters needs to replace that old wood-and-peat boiler down in the dungeon. Or turn up the thermostat, but that would, you know, hurt the environment.

Plot is recording like crazy, trying to beat the deadline. What deadline? There is no deadline. But he's been locked away, messing with wave forms and Help Lines where the wait is half an hour, minimum, and what's worse is the message every thirty seconds: "Your call is important to us. An operator will serve you momentarily."

Plot wishes people would leave Barack Obama alone. If anything can undo or at least lengthen any recovery our economy is bound to have, it is refusing to see the entire garment instead of constantly harping at every single square inch of cloth. Sooner or later Pres O. is going to have to chastise us, wean us away from CNN, where if he saved the world in a spotted shirt, they'd have symposia with 50 experts about his spotted shirt.

It's raining in the Caribbean, so we hear.