Welcome To the Jerome Show

It was warm in the yurt; the desert was unyieldingly hot. There was the slight scent of ylanylang, it was sweet. The guy wearing the yarmulke had a captive audience He was yacking to the point of yammering, I could barely watch. Yack Yack Yack Yammer Yammer Yammer How could these other guys stand it? He was giving them his lowdown on the festival of Yule. They yield the floor to him, which was insanity. I know him well, and he has never attended such a festival. Someone walked in carrying a tray of food including one yam. That yam is mine! I yelled with a yowl. I had not meant this as a yawp, but it came out that way. I yearned to get out of this yurt, but the show was not over yet. My cousin was stroking the back of an old man with yellow hair. A youngster came over to me and asked for a bite of my yam. I stared him down; I do not even like children; they have no place here. This is for men, not babies. Yum! I said. This is super delicious. The youngster shrugged and waked off, seeming not to care. Yesterday I might have been a bit more generous, but today I am angry. I got talked into this gathering, and I knew it would be the Jerome show. It is always the Jerome show when my cousin is about. I yearn for the end of this craziness. I want to go home and be me again.