Alfonso McPhee is stupid. He’s utterly a numbskull in the highest degree. I know this, because the other day I saw him laying down in a little brook, not even deep enough for him to totally submerge his pale skinned body in (the water was very dark around him, and folded over him crisply) and I said, Alfonoso, why are you laying in that borok, don’t you know you could get geodia, or bloodsucking leaches?? And he replied calmly, “Who cares about bloodsucking leaches, I’ve got plenty of blood, and there’s quite enough to share.” But I persisted, surely because I was concerned for the general staten of his health, and I said, “Alfonso, it’s February, you’ll catch your death of cold, surely as sure as I’m Leopold Lepin.” But still he remained there heedlessly, basking in the chilly icy aquatic trickle, and asking nothing of no one, and occasionally looking up at the sky, and remarking, “Leopold, isn’t that a big sky? What a big sky that is! How very very big. Oh I am glad the sky is so big today.” And I could only roll my eyes, for he would not listen to my reasonable persuasions that the sky was immaterial, and could be neither bigger nor smaller than yesterday. And that to find it remarkable was quite as silly as being amazed the you woke up, when you’ve woken up every day of your life, and reason tells you that it’s going to keep happening for a while. Silly as laying down in a brook full of bloodsuckers in February. And he informed me that one day I wouldn’t wake up in the morning, and that every day after that I again and again wouldn’t wake up in the morning, and I said “I don’t like you, and you look like a diarhetic partridge, and I went bowling.
See, I told you that Alfonso McPhee was a fool.
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