"Don't fall," I said.
I really didn't need to say anything. This was one of the more precarious perches (have I used that alliteration before?) that Myx had balanced on. It had taken more than one try to wedge the small ironing board into the crotch of the tree at that height.
"Another fine mess you've gotten me into," Myx whispered.
I knew I shouldn't have let him watch that Laurel and Hardy marathon.
"You'll be fine. Just think--you're a prime example of "Extreme Ironing," I said.
"And why is it again I want to be that?"
"Lots of people take that seriously. You should be honored that you're participating in such a sport." Even though I didn't know what I was talking about, I thought that sounded pretty good.
"I think you're just blowing smoke," Myx said.
"Where on a book, may I ask, do you actually blow the smoke?" Myx wouldn't answer.
Miracle Myx
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