<div class="floatleft">(https://www.mediafire.com/convkey/7297/tzuhccaneoolbdb6g.jpg) <span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><div align="center"><strong> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">Steffy – CC</span></strong></div></div>This has taken a nice turn, all because of my rhubarb . . . fetish(?).<br/><br/>Mechelle, carrying no grudges from past generations, wishes a Happy Independence day.  I do a fist pump and mouth<em>right on!</em>.  I sigh deeply and over-dramatically, saying: “Things are all turmoiled—I think it started with the egomaniac over-dosing on tanning, then . . . well he’s crazy-un-sensical.”  I rather like that and beam at Taffy.<br/><br/>I’m not exactly sure if I was too quick to assume that Mechelle was not some Brit spy, undercutting society.  That’s more a Putin thing, but . . . I look at the Wigan cocktail.  Is it a pie with a side of some brew or vice versa.<br/><br/>I’m poured into this leather outfit and there’s not a breadth of spare room.  Soooo . . . “Is it lo-cal, not local, lo-cal and nothing travels to one’s derriere, right?”<br/><br/>It makes sense to have just one it would seem, “Yes, please.  Do I just say I’ll have a Wigan?”<br/>