72 A yogi banned from Jellystone National Park

Swami Skinrash was his own mess, and sat in it at the Plip Plop Coffe Shop. The dead body count increased, and his holy, plain yogurt-toned visage was hard put to conceal the tallying in his beady and greedy eyes.
He had a syllogism, gratifying as Granny Guss’s.
“Many bicycle riders have died, oh yes, right in front of me.
“No one seems to be attending to their bicycles.
“Alpo, I will take the grave responsibility – hee hee hee, hee hee hee – upon myself to sell these bicycles, so it seems I must.”
Baby Drew overheard, even as he flung his arms outward and his fists smote two of the last legion of attackers.
In aggrieved proto-language, he told himself what he’d perceived made no sense. “Ttlgoogoobgoobll’t.”
A shriek pierced the curt pensee.
“You horrid, bad little boy! I! I! I . . . will save we who still live!”
“Solecism,” baby Drew muttered, again in his own way. He and Granny Guss had shared many an edifying hour in front of the television while Public Broadcasting System grammar classes were conducted.
The shriek was accompanied by a histrionic leap from the wall bench.
“How dare he presume to emulate Zorro!” Baby Drew, in gurgle, was affronted. He loved Zorro, in all languages, of all eras.
Granny Guss had rhapsodized, “Tyrone Power, Guy Williams, Douglas Fairbanks, Senior . . .” It wasn’t a syllogism, but it looked like she was having one.
As homage, as retribution, the flyswatter slashed across the bicyclist’s face in the sign of the Z.
The other baby wished to leap high from his chair and cheer, but restrained himself to continue sipping drams of formula.
But it brought the Guss household’s worthless Sunday drop-ins out of their seats, for the stark emancipation of the little one whom they’d only seen in his crib.
“Viva! Viva Andres!”
The mature beauty flung her glorious white locks to the heavens, and the sight of it cascading back down rivaled such fanning and falling by any nubile prospect.
“Cheri! Cheri!”
The entire little league team howled, exactly like they had for the Good Hustle Ninja’s miracle play at third base, with yows and wows.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo!” Monsignor Quinn trilled.
Acclamation would not distract little Drew while bicylists still breathed.
The transcendent imperturbability that was a pose of Swami Skinrash’s, for baby Drew was actual charisma.

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