We tried to come up with a better sentence, we tried to come up with a better sentence. Then applied ourselves, dove into our labors. We resurfaced with nothing to show. Through popular magazines of the day, we flipped or thumbed to no avail. To no avail we crossed our legs, uncrossed our legs, caressed our tender scalps. We came up empty handed and, on closer inspection, the hands pulsed with pus-filled nodules. Itching, we tried not to think about it. Thinkers, a triumph of Enlightenment. A better mousetrap. A better waffle-iron. A more humane approach toward ignoring, laughing off, or better yet forgetting whatever that was. These but a mouthful of deeds or feats to date. From behind the ear where it was lodged a pencil fell and, under its own power, trundled in a graceful arc toward the vent from which it never, we knew instinctively, never would be recovered. We tried to come up with a passable sentence. Possibly the rash, for lack of a better word, was but the figment of a strained imaginary. The itch insisted on certain fundamental rights. The Q & A or perhaps interrogation stretched on. We pressed for answers, pressed for time. We requested a waste basket. Shortly thereafter, a glass of water. A disgrace to our colleagues, a disgrace to their wives. Whom had we sentenced and to what? What a farrago. In a rare moment of fulmination, aforesaid lack of a better word for rash began to spread. It got on famously. The rest is stuff of legend.