Our topnotch team of data-driven barflies has been puzzling-out, nay, teasing-out the concentric layers inherent to Metacarpalism, by examining the thing's, ehh, annual rings. Or maybe Metacarpalism functions as a series of intersecting circles -- kind of like the rings left by our shot glasses on the bar. Because, yes! You've got a self-referential ("Meta") exploration of applause ("carpal") aligning itself with ("ism") a tender, tender moment [c.f., "love making"] that nevertheless flips us off. And there you are, atmospherically speaking: popsicle flubbers.

Okay, let's try this again. We've been meaning to discuss with you the whereabouts of the potato masher. Look: please: please: tell us, tell us immediately where you placed it, because by now, we are worried for its safety. We would like to restore the device to its rightful place on the granite countertop beside the lone ripening pluot. Does this ring a bell bottom? In short, Metacarpalism offers you cotton tube socks (with the ridiculous green stripes) when you require a change of t-shirt. It's three a.m. You can see your breath. Above you, a preposterous ruckus of blue jays caucuses amid the alloys of their copious disagreements.

You could receive one parcel of nibbled government stimulus fromage or one parcel of nibbled government stimulus crayons. When along comes Metacarpalism via Media Mail. Nibbled! The days are growing longer and just maybe, this book has anticipated your request. Just maybe, all will be forgiven.