"My man Rush!" Nobody Blowhard at the Thanksgiving table opined in the middle of cranberry-sauce pouring — ruining it for another year, this peace at the holidays after 40-hrs. per week with weekends and 4-5 sitting in front of the tube and the dependent's every whim being catered to 'til age 18. Who signed up for this?
They all did!
(Who asked them?
So, as if on cue — in 1995, what 'til '96, whole year's gone downhill, now — his wife rolled her eyes (as if to shrug her shoulders, What is one to do? —a crucial gambit in the çharade of reconciliation; without that strut in place, the conjoining axle wouldn't be in place — it would fall apart, and all would be lost), and said, "Here we go again . . . " Spreading butter on her WonderBread, while eyeing the kids to make sure they'd clam up.
Nobody noticed, particularly.
It's like when the show rolls over into a commercial and back into the commercial and forward into another show . . . you didn't do it!
The comfort, itself, of feeling it slip awa—
— while you're leaning in, but powerless to escap—
(horny teenagers, out on some lame excuse, screw in the back of a Cutlass Supreme)