“THE BRAVE ANCESTOR INTERRUPTS THE WRONG” Evil Editor was reclining on the picnic table, watching William balance on the tree branch.
“Ack! Maître, why can’t you just say ‘excuse me’ or clear your throat? You scared me. I almost fell out. Just a MOMENT.”
“If you were doing it right, I wouldn’t have to say anything at all. Now get yourself ADOWN from there immédiatement.”
“Fine. I’m 'a-hurrying,' ‘a-BOSS.’”
“Insolent! I should put you ATHWART my knees for a thrashing!”
Feeling SULKY, William dropped and sat against the tree. Embarrassed, his face was red, burning as hot as the THORIA in the Coleman propane BEDLIGHT that illuminated the campsite. He could smell the MINOXIDIL from E.E.’s balding pate. “Nothing’s ever good enough, is it? I came camping with you because you said to practice OUTSIDE. Three days now, in the MIDST of mosquito swarms, getting sunburnt, and FER what?”
“To teach you freedom. You’re prohibiting yourself from full expression. You must learn NONPROHIBITION of the body -- Kind of like a chick with NYMPHOMANIA.” E.E. blinked, distracted.
“Ahem. Anyway. I shall show you how a true TERPSICHOREAN dances!” E.E. struck a noble pose, saluted, and danced. Despite his LARGENESS, he performed the most graceful dance William had ever seen. “You must be a CONTRAPUNTIST of your limbs, MESHING with the wind!” E.E. grinned breathlessly.
“SUR vos pieds! Now you do it. AFTER you show me PROSECUTION of the dance we’ll go home.” William did, and E.E. hid an APPROVING smile.