We need a judge’s ruling on isle three, please,

Cheryl says it’s my fault.

I think it’s Cheryl’s fault.

An old man from my old church, whose name I can not immediately recall, would submit that the natural order – the force that surrounds us, flows through us, and bids us together, is relying on Cheryl being right.

Cheryl was discussing the ins and outs of defensive tactics, when I made a decidedly smart assed remark – counting on a certain kind of response. Cheryl’s slight twist at the waist, her hand cocked back for a side-armed delivery, yep, I was reading her like a dime store novel.

“Remember Daniel-san, wax-ON, wax-OFF!”

Cheryl’s attempt at a playful slap unexpectedly met the bony ridge of my forearm, instead the ample padding of my supple rump.

“OW! That hurt! Why did you do that to me?”

I maintain that if her arm, in deliberate motion towards my prone form, strikes my stationary forearm – regardless if she preferred asses to arms – she still did the hitting.