A Fiery Bacchnalia. With Smoking Jackets.

As sun sets on a warm San Diego evening, all seems well with the world. Palmtrees silhouette against the paling sky of a sinking sun. But lurking beneath, waiting to bequeath its solemn mystery to the illuminated few..

.. T'is fairly cloudy.. solely the prophetic eye o' a seer could divine the lurking evil.. hiding just behind the wafting flumes..

Nay, Dear Viewer, it couldst, nay, it Shalt Not Be... But soft, alighting mine own retinas.. seeist I... a washing machine? A mortal man, braving hoof and limb for the succor..

... And verily I see, regaled in purloined robes bespeaking a sullen, yet exquisite "Je ne sais quoi," and indeed, I quoi not....

One Philip J. Mach, overlord of excellence, landlord of the soul.

Pay your Mortal rent or be cast forever into the fires of Machino del Wash.

And tending the unspeakable perimeters of such esteemed and es-stained arenas, wielding (and never yielding) his FLAMING LAWNMOWER...

"Seppuku.. Without a fiery corpus.. but adding a lawn maintenance machine, respectfully aflame."

"So, why don't the four of us go to a secluded Aruban beach?"

"Not to boast, but.."

Luckily, the goat was on hand to make sure nothing like the aforementioned atrocity would be enacted..

"Yeah, I look good. Remember that cheese plate on the counter? Ate it. Then you know what I did, honey? I shat like a bear, wiped my paws all over it, paraded around the bed, and licked myself. Yes, paws included. Now pull up the skirt - We're gonna mow the lawn."