Had you happened to pass by my house yesterday near dusk, you would have observed three generations of Urello women crouched by the back gate and having the following conversation:
“All this is pine berries.”
“Some of them are pine berries, some are armadillo poop.”
“I really don’t think so, I think they are all pine berries.”
“Blabbba woo!”
“Ok, look at this one. It’s purple. It’s a pine berry. But then look at this one.”
“Also a pine berry.”
“No, that’s an armadillo poop.”
“Pbbbthhhhhhh.”
“Your eyes are old, that’s a pine berry, there’s no difference.”
“My eyes are perfect, you stare at a screen all day. Look, they look just alike, I’ll grant you, and some are pine berries, but others are armadillo poop.”
“I just really don’t think so!”
“This one!”
“That’s a pine berry.”
“Well, fine, so what do you think is digging up our yard then?”
“I agree an armadillo is is present, I’m not contesting that. What I’m saying is that all these little balls everywhere aren’t armadillo poop.”
“None of them?”
“I haven’t closely examined all 5000 tiny balls, but I have yet to see one that isn’t a pine berry.”
“Baba. Ba. BA!!!!”
“So then where is the armadillo pooping?”
“I’m sure it’s pooping somewhere, no doubt in our yard as well, but what I’m saying is that we don’t have to worry that this giant collection of small balls by the back gate is armadillo poop, because—“
“NO NO NO NO NO”
“NO NO, give it here! Edith! Give it!”
(Sounds of a scuffle.)
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH huh huh huh huh!!!!!!!”
“See? It’s a pine berry.”
“Well, thank god. Ok, fine, I guess we’ll see.”
“What do you mean? What’s to see? You can see right here, either it’s armadillo poop or it’s not.”
“I concede the point, ok? I’m happy if you’re right!”
“Woo wa ma.”
“If?”
(Debate continues.)
Accismus 