Like a Led Zeppelin song, she rambled on. Each syllable dripped with what I suppose they call “southern charm,” but what sounded more to me like angry, proud squawking.
Her “o”s took on an “ah” sound, aggressively-placed “I”s sprinkled themselves throughout her speech, adding a layer of demanding selfishness to the shrieking.
Any pauses allotted for questions were bittersweet, and soon shattered by her hasty stuttering interjections of “I-I-I-I-I THINK…” It sounded faintly like what Foghorn Leghorn’s non-existent wife, if she someday picked up the role of regulatory research bureaucrat, and with such great relish that her body literally quivered in excitement, feathers ruffling as she pecked away at the latest book of regulations.
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