Word came.

  "Ixnay theah stepney childrenay 

  "BOOK.  And stop talking pug Latin please, you'll corrupt my children."  Robot-dancing children, some tall, some short whikiwheered their ways over to a knot of grownups.  Everyone had a lot of projects on their plates and like diplomats were dividing vacation zones into spheres and zones. 

  A third understudy for Lucille Ball slipped her way out of a vat of grapesmashing.  Huh, someone grabbed a baby's "spit up" towel and made a desperate attempt to clean up the filthy tracks left behind from a gradual stomp over to the aw-dervs.  Little hot dogs in pastry.  The hiked up skirt fell to ankle length as a woman, an actual, biological woman took a babe in arms.  "Did y'all leave me out of a literary discussion?" 

  "Stop it.  Stop it," another lady air-grabbed for the towel.  She tried to stop the man's obsessive compulsions to clean and not to waste.  "That's why we're doing this outside this time," a lady in the vat waved her hand at the beautiful sunshine.  "Fresh air," started a man in a moustache, "And far less cleanup," the handwaving lady announced okay day, okay with this much work. 

  "How difficult?" Another man asked while taking the baby.  "Quite," said a person in a typecast Detective "get up" holding a magnifying glass to fingernails to affirm that an impeccable manicure had been given the man.  "It's very simmulahr." A person on Nana's golden phone sounded trying to convince the MOST most famous Director in the world. 

  "What is?" Different people asked simultaneously of difficult and similar.