Rinse hands. Soap up. Make your hands wrestle while singing twenty seconds’ worth of John Prine’s “When I Get To Heaven.” Rinse. Dry hands. Use what you dried your hands with to turn off the water.

Rinse hands. Soap up. Make your hands wrestle while singing twenty seconds’ worth of John Prine’s “When I Get To Heaven.” Rinse. Dry hands. Use what you dried your hands with to turn off the water.

Once, long ago, Arthur C. Clarke was challenged to write an entire science fiction story on a postcard. He succeeded with his usual panache. I won’t spoil the story for you–I’ll just invite you to read what I was delighted to find online: http://www.postcardshorts.com/Quarantine_Arthur_C_Clarke.html
There’s a lady who lives where I work who is encouraging me to learn how to play contract bridge, simply because I saw her and her friends at it and mentioned that I wished I had learned. She showed up at the desk with a volume by the Master, Charles Goren, as thick as the metro Phoenix phone book we had in the kitchen when I was a kid. After a couple of weeks I got up to page 8 in Mr. Goren’s book. Perhaps it is not meant to be.
Here are the words to the quadruple acrostic:
For Brother Mordfael’s timeless road
Uncounted Eons may implode
Less fictive cohorts’ bric-a-brac
Lets crackling cards run in a pack