"Richard, look out the window and tell me what's wrong with the greenhouse."
Looking... "Why? What's wrong with it?"
"You don't see anything wrong with it?"
"No, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nevermind. Read the blog when you get to work. And send your supervisor to read it as well."
That last part will never happen. Richard actually admitting it's way crooked won't either, but I've obviously been forced to come to live with these things.
"There was a crooked man, who had a crooked cane. He walked a crooked mile, down a crooked lane... "
He had a crooked smile, and a crooked brain, and though he is a goofball, I love him the just the same.
And that my friends, is what you call "poetic license." And mine is about to be revoked.