Robert Robus on trees

I, Robert Robus, am extremely fond of trees. I enjoy basking in their shade; I am enamored of scaling their limbs; and I take great gusto in contemplating their majesty. Indeed, whether they be maples, ash, or lindens, I enjoy spending obscene amounts of time in their company.

As it happens, I, Robert Robus, now stand beneath a venerable oak. It is early autumn--and, as such, the molten glories of splendid autumn have not yet brushed the trees aflame in ardent strokes. Yet it is coming; and as I, Robert Robus, once again endeavor to converse with this venerable dendrite, I wish to pose the question, "When shall you allow the molten glories of splendid autumn to brush your foliage aflame in ardent strokes?" Yet, given my spotty track record in eliciting responses from this venerable dendrite, I think my chances of eliciting yet another would be dubious at best.

But hark! There is a rustling from the crown branches of this venerable tree! Why, the dendrite must be readying itself for a reply; for why else would its branches stir? And--OW! I just got hit by an acorn, folks--I just got hit by an acorn! Why, it seems this infernal tree has pelted me with one of its execrable stones, dear readers; can you believe such brusque audacity? One thing's for sure: it could not have been that squirrel I espy scurrying through the green up yonder meanwhile chuckling; no, that would be impossible and absurd! This tree developed a personal vendetta against me, pelted me with an acorn, and quite fleetly and subsequently planted a hologram of a chuckling squirrel high in its lofty branches. Case closed, my dear readers--that must be it!

[NOTE FROM BLOG ADMINISTRATOR]
Though sarcasm is a salutary and often addictive practice, I believe in moderation in all things.