The Fantabulous, Splendiforous Travails of Jelsie (As Told To Dan Rather)

Jesse here. Elsie and I (Jelsie) are going to explain to you part of what we did today, and we plan on doing so in a fragmentary, unsatisfying manner. So buckle your seatbelts and prepare for small snippets of a tale of intrigue interwoven with poststructuralist theorizing regarding gender roles in 19th century Bulgaria.

First, we went here:

This dude built a tower in honor of Leif Erikson because he thought Erikson landed in Cambridge, Mass. in 1000 AD, and then progressed up the Charles River to this point in Waltham. Unfortunately, none of it is true. But the tower is awesome. The entrances are barred off, but we were svelte enough to slip in like napkins under a doorway.

Now I am Elsie. We went through the bars, and it was dark and we had to climb the twisting stairs. And then we got there and it began to rain so we didn't remember to make any fairytale references. For example: Jesse did not tell me to let down my hair so that he could climb up. But there were STAIRS. So he didn't have to.

Earlier today, we saw the stupidest little girl alive. We were in a Mexican restaurant, enjoying delicious "burritos" and "quesadillas" with our "friends" Bielak and Marlowe. The chick was maybe two or three, and she kept pushing this orange ball along the ground, and then picking it up and putting it in her mouth, proud as a golden retriever. What a jerk!

We just got back from the haunted golf course. Luckily, we did not get eaten by the ghost wolves or the crocto'skunks. Or the mysterious, distant swinging noises. Jesse did not escape the evil sprinkler, but he is recovering.

His house has a lot of light switches.

And that is the end of our adventurous day. We laughed a little, cried a little, ate a little, smiled a little, and maybe -- just maybe -- learned a little about ourselves, and about sharing. But, as Lacan once said, "Dude, it's getting late out. Better go to bed, bro. Peace man."

About sharing [our first names]. Goodnight.