Looks like a cyclone hit it. No it doesn't. It looks like two cyclones hit it, then decided to linger long enough to have frenzied make-up sex in our living room. Believe us when we tell you that mayhem of this order is no one-person job. Fortunately, Mrs. UF is happy to pitch in. The pups also do their part, leaving their well-stocked armamentarium of chewing apparati lying about along with compromising undergarments from Mrs. UF's "Friedrich Nietzsche of Hollywood" collection.
There was, believe it or not, a time in our life when we believed in neatness and order. This time was the fifth grade. We think, although our memory of that dark period is fortunately faulty, that we even made a point of making our bed. What an impossible little martinet of cleanliness we must have been! In our memory he stands, an impossible taskmaster, arm akimbo like General Patton, as he inspects the pristine confines of our bedroom. We even remember him taking great pains to fold up the towel in the downstairs bathroom, the prick.
If he could only see us now! He would have conniptions. He would weep hot tears of gall! It's almost a pity he succumbed to our native sense of chaos, that miniature version of the man we might have been: clean, tidy, insufferable.