“[SIZE=4]Oh. I’d better call it a night,” he said aloud to himself and shuffled into the house, leaving the box of flashlights, his untouched milk, and the carcass of the lawn chair that was now resting in peace.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=4] In the morning, Plimpy surveyed the damage while simultaneously picking pieces of balloon out of the red mop that covered his dented and misshapen cranium. He knew he would have to skip church again in order to solve this problem. It seemed he had a problem every Sunday that caused him to have to skip church. The sprinklers had run sometime in the night. Plimpy had no idea how to control the sprinklers. In fact, he had no clue where the controls were.[/SIZE]<!--break-->
[SIZE=4] The flashlights were soaking wet. The milk was diluted and sour, but he’d have to drink it anyway. “You have to drink your milk,” was what his mother always used to say. The binoculars were half full of water. The interior mirrors would be permanently marked...
