The numerology luckily divined equals twenty-five strokes, each lap a full length shy of two feet by three and a half inches. After nine centimeters of thirty hours and sixteen minutes, the mathematician recalculated and ultimately deferred the word problem to a handwriting expert to work out another solution. Instead he called long distance seeking spiritual validation.
Outside, an odd couple wheezes very loudly, sinuses simultaneously blaring a full retreat. The sportswriter of the two is looking for an outlet to plug in his portable electric Smith-Corona before midnight. His teams are in first place clinching divisional titles by wide margins. But first, ask the nurse for some Tylenol, his temperature is well past normal and a delicate constitution needs to be written.
Inside their antiseptic room, both agree after she relents and lets him be happy: in the middle before plum makes perfect sense despite his awkward attempts to anglicize. But the question still lingers as whether to hyphenate or not. Such trouble from a dash no one could anticipate.
Overnight proved restless as jaundice settled in, the result possibly of a viral infection. Another Oscar, a Goldman authorized as a precaution, a bionic tube that sticks out from the top of his head. Even inveterate gamblers refrain from betting against the house, making sure to wash their hands first with antibacterial soap. And so after three consecutive days, the newborn family goes home again a second time, just in time to become a miniature Mister T three days before Halloween.