I will come out of my perfect 7500 post hiding in order to wish a very happy birthday to you, the grammarian of my dreams. My heart still aches for you. I miss the snap of your ruler rapping my knuckles as I blunder clumsily through the English language.
And that grammarian is no gramma, she is white hot with that sizzling bun.
Happy birthday, Miss Ayelery.
And I join my romantic rival in wishing an anniversaire formidable to one possessing that rare mixture of correctitude, generous pedagogy, and inner and outer beauty.
Miss Ayerley, on this your birthday may you put aside the burden of your wisdom and revel simply in the glory of your being.
Uh-oh. It’s either a bait (which can hardly do any good for your case of romantic rivalry), or a form of irony that escapes me, or you’d better hide for Miss Ayelery’s ire.
Ali G would love miss Aye Lili.
Lil’ Aye, he’d call her. He’d say: “Lil’ Aye’s aight, ain’t she?”
I would like to respond, but I think instead I’m going to concede.