Something Up His Sleeve

Picture the sleekest of modern conference rooms with its inviting view of the city all the way to the shimmering lake. The room, which readily doubles as a corporate board room, has all the amenities: large plasma screen on the wall, remote computer gizmos, high-backed leatherette chairs, and a dark wood table large enough for Henry VIII to dine on or to commit debaucheries upon with all of his eight wives simultaneously (if his heady decisions didn't preclude that). Seated around the corporate monument are the Politburo, ticking off items on the weekly agenda, readying themselves for the appointed Monday cross-examination of our beloved, if fictional, Pawlie Kokonuts.

"What do you have?"

It is a query not about the potential affliction of a communicable disease but rather an inquiry into the rundown of potential work-related items (i.e., The List) for the Politburo to consider, yay or nay, thumbs up or thumbs down, a la the Roman Coliseum.

Mr. Kokonuts, in honor of the weekly ritual, sports a lavender shirt, a reddish silk tie with hunting animals dancing around on it (why not? it is a hunt, isn't?), and khakis (well, shoes, wristwatch, glasses, etc. too).

As he prepares to introduce this week's List, Pawlie spies something amiss peeking out of the cuff of his left sleeve. As he mumbles through the first item, Mr. Kokonuts, Esq. entertains the faint possibility that last night's laundry effort may have resulted in a static clinginess of otherwise disparate fabrics, joining together what can not yet be put asunder.

What to do?

For one, don't wave the left hand too vigorously. But I write (excuse me; the fictional Pawlie Kokonuts writes) left-handed, so the left arm is apt to be engaged in risky motion.

Pivotal question: What precisely is the cling-on article of clothing married to the interior of the shirtsleeve? A dark-blue sock? Spousal panties? Pawlie's panties? Someone else's knickers!? A series of brightly colored, knotted handkerchiefs straight out of a lesser Houdini's act?

Another pivotal question: Don't you agree that modern detergents permit you to mix whites with colored clothing (except for brand-new duds) with impunity?

"What do you have?" the Greek chorus intones, a second time.

"This," Mr. K sings, and triumphantly whips out a blue sock with stars, one of those half-socks you wear with loafers or sneakers.

Fearless? Or reckless? (What would Kierkegaard do [WWKD]?)

Fact? Or fancy?

The blogospheric people decide.