After I opened the front door, I opened the screen door--which, I suppose, is really a “storm” door because it does not have a screen.  The screen is somewhere in the basement and I am too lazy to dust it off and return it to service.  Instead of a screen, this door that exists a step, or less, beyond the front door’s exterior has a clear plastic panel, which, as mentioned above, qualifies it as a “storm” door.  I do not, however, feel comfortable calling it a “storm” door.  So, I have conducted some research.  I consulted Home Depot’s website, Lowe’s website, and Wikipedia’s entries on screen and storm doors.  These sites did not provide me with the comfort I sought.  (And what, exactly, do I seek?  I seek, as do most in these parts, a convincing echo chamber.  Alas!  All of the echoes returned to me are incongruous distortions!)  True:  This door-before-my-front-door has survived the four seasons for decades, but I still feel that it is too flimsy to be regarded as something meant to resist storms.  Evidentially, my thinking, my reasoning, my overall analytical methodology is flawed.  “But how could that be?” you might ask.  “How could the great and powerful FireVaney,” you might add, “exhibit the misconceptions ordinarily expected from the common man (or commonly expected from the ordinary man)?”  And I would smile and pat you on the head.  But that would be too contumelious of me.  Scratch that; it is probably a mistake to use “contumelious” in the aforementioned context.  Let us then say:  impertinent.  No, instead, let us say:  presumptuous.  Yes.  Patting you on the head would be too--I change my mind again--tactless of me.  Yes.  Tactless works best.  (“Saucy,” however, would be fun, but inappropriate.  If I am going to use “saucy,” as in:  “It would be too saucy of me to pat you on the head,” I might as well use “contumelious.”  Actually, I am even more partial to “cheeky.”  But using “cheeky” would, as you will see, give myself away.)  So.  I would pat you on the cheek.  Perhaps I would also pinch your cheek--not enough to hurt it or leave a mark, no.  No, forget the pinch.  I shall pat you on the cheek.  That is all I shall do.  I promise.  A light, little pat.  Assuming, of course, your cheek is a clean cheek.  If not, I shall ask you to wash it.  Then, I shall happily pat it.  (To clarify, I mean not to pat either of your derrière’s cheeks, but, rather, one of your facial cheeks.  If, for some reason, I feel it necessary to pat your derrière’s cheeks, I might as well go ahead and kiss them, too--yes, them, for if I am going to kiss your arse, I might as well do a thorough job of it.  But, for that, be warned, I charge a hefty fee.)  Is it not unreasonable?  If my hand is washed or freshly sanitized (or both, which is most likely the case), your cheeks should meet the same standard.  Indeed:  Henceforth:  Should we ever encounter one another (again) be sure to lather and/or scrub your cheeks with antibacterial soap beforehand.  And I do not care--not a whit--if doing so dries out your skin.  As a compromise:  Here:  As I am most likely to pat your left cheek with my right hand, please, at the very least, decontaminate the left side of your face.  Thank you very much.  So.  I was addressing your concern, your disbelief, your flabbergastion (if I may coin a term--although, at this writing, Google returns about 2,470 results for the word, “flabbergastion”--that is, when entered in quotes--but so what?--Google does not yet possess the authority of any of the great linguists or lexicographers), yes, flabbergastion, I say, over my exhibition of plebeian misconstructions.  Rest assured, when I err, I do so in jest.  Always, always, in jest.  That is the way of the FireVaney.  (If anyone should ask.)

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