let's pretend we don't exist/let's pretend we're in hesperia

we'll have bizarre celebrations, alright. we'll play scrabble and grouse about the junior varsity dictionary we're using to arbitrate our challenges.

a shower means baby powder on a brush.

a tablecloth means an umber-striped sheet from 1978.

slippers are absolutely mandatory.

all-day pajamas are the required uniform.

daily backrubs and unscheduled naps are on the menu.

to become initiated into the cabin club, you must be able to endure the raging heat that emanates from the wood burning stove. it's good for the pores, people. if it gets too much, just step out the sliding glass door onto the deck and take a cool ride on the rope swing.

your pastimes [books, magazines, hobbies] are worth nothing here. i know you don't believe me, but you just don't need 'em.

once inducted into this sweatlodge society, you will find great joy in shopping for insanely cheap and needless items at the local v&s. everyone needs a neon green digital watch... especially when it's a dollar!

you will be warmly queried [almost eerily so] by every person who serves you scrumptious buttered raisin toast an inch thick for breakfast and packs your groceries lovingly in a plastic bag.

you'll meander down the road, trying to burn off your thanksgiving feast and will jerk to attention suddenly, throwing your swaddled head to and fro in search of an oncoming car you hear. it's just the wind in the pines.