[Vision2020] Is Zume's on the market?

[Joan Opyr]

Wayne writes:

>Whatever business goes into the allegedly soon-to-be-vacant space of Zume
>should recognize what a remarkable asset the other tenant in the building,
>New Saint Andrews College, is.

You know, I was going to resist this temptation, I really was.  But the 
flesh is weak, particularly when the spirit is willing.  I submit this 
without comment on the fate of Zume's, but in the spirit of thinking about 
businesses that might be compatible with the GTE building's upstairs 
residents.

Blessed Insurance: You only thought you were in good hands with Allstate.

The Abomination Station: You're not certain if your new polyester/wool blend 
Sears Roebuck suit passes Biblical muster (Lev. 19:19), or you ate a shrimp 
cocktail and need to know if you're going to hell (Lev. 11:10).  Stop by.  
We'll tell you.

Submission Transmission : Where your husband is always in the driver's seat.

What a Friend We Have in G-String: Moscow's answer to Victoria's Secret.

Eat a Sweet, Buy and Buy: Forget about the Atkins diet.  Carbe diem.

Scareway to Heaven: Moscow's newest music store, selling one CD and one CD 
only, featuring this song by a local guitar minister turned theologian, 
turned author, turned historian, classicist, professor, brain surgeon, and 
double-nought spy.  (My goodness -- he's beginning to sound like Jethro 
Bodine.)

Pretend Jimmy Page is here with us and sing along with me . . .

There's a preacher who knows
All that glitters is gold
And he's trying to scare you
To heaven.

When he gets there he knows
That the doors will be closed
To gays, feminists, Buddhists, Mormons,
And Catholics.

And he's not sure about you,
If you happen to be a Jew,
And you won't convert,
Before the Rapture.

Ooh, ooh, ooh,
Ooh, ooh, ooh,
And he's trying to scare you,
To heaven.

(Okay, now for the screechy bit.)

And as he winds on down the road,
He'll try to squash you like a toad.
His ego's big, his heart is cold.
Shut your mouth, do what you're told.

But if you listen very hard,
The truth will come to you at last,
That it's all hot air and lard,
Not a rock but just bad gas.

(And, finally, pianissimo.)

And he's trying
To scare you
To heaven.

Submitted humbly and with profound apologies to Robert Plant,

Joan Opyr/Auntie Establishment

PS:  Recalling that the poems of Emily Dickinson were ruined for me when a 
professor pointed out that they could all be sung to the tune of "The Yellow 
Rose of Texas," please note that I have left "Black Dog" and "The Immigrant 
Song" intact and unmolested by shameful parody.

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