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need your help. Someone is spreading the theory of ordinary days. It is probably the same person who invented the greeting, “Dear Valued Customer.” 

It is definitely the same dastard who says, “this is not my first rodeo,” and “I wasn’t born yesterday.” This is how we know they are lying. There is not a living creature who was born more recently than yesterday. 

I was personally born within the last hour. That was when I learned that there exists an eminent musician named Captain Beefheart. I do not know which branch of the military he serves, but I will find out. He coined the word “booglarize.” We will probably need his help.

We will certainly need the full participation of the elementary school bus and everyone in possession of a working tambourine. It is of critical importance that we amass a stockpile of hurrahs. If we are going to reclaim time from the soggy and jagged, we must be united on this. The more hurrahs we muster, the more hurrahs will come.

I don’t believe in last hurrahs because of the nature of my hurrahs. Upon discovery of a new species of Cheez-It, I erupt “Zoiks!” in earshot of the citizenry. Three housecats can sign affidavits quoting me on stating “ooh, shaka laka” while removing warm items from the dryer. I have submitted press releases to the New York Times on the occasion of getting my bangs to lie flat. I espouse the theory of infinite hurrahs.

This is what is at stake. If the dastard and his den of miscreants have their way, people might lose hope in the persistence of hurrahs. Convince a species that any day is disposable, and they will throw out all the cool rocks they once knew were lucky. Keep them barreling towards something bigger, and they will run too fast for goodness and mercy to catch them. 

You see what we are up against. I believe in us. The dastard has apathy, ennui, and the color beige on his side. We have flotillas of magentas, the people who embroider smiles on stuffed animals, and everyone who ever put away their phone because a present mammal needed to talk. 

This is going to be a guerrilla effort. Orangutans are definitely on our side. We must not miss a single opportunity. We shall remind the fading that there are walruses roaring for sheer joy despite the low likelihood of a Grammy. It is incumbent upon us to write upcoming meteor showers on the work calendar. Should we encounter a person called “Mafalda,” we are duty-bound to congratulate her at considerable volume. 

We must school our children in the similitude of Vitamin D gelcaps to alien eggs. Every carpool depends on our courage to keep colleagues in the vehicle, should God grant a Lenny Kravitz song on the radio.

As we take beachheads, it will be to our advantage to invent new expletives. Don’t get me wrong. I love the old ones as much as you do. But it is time to freshen the wardrobe for imminent hurrahs. I propose we begin with “shmorp.” Syllable extension is permissible. “Shmoooooorp!” We will whisper it around children, so they know it is picklish and garlicky. We must scold the youths for saying it in polite company. I don’t know where we will find polite company, but maybe Captain Beefheart has some connections. Once we get the youths, we have it made. 

I have just witnessed a major victory by two of our youths. One had hair as white as the Ancient of Days. One had a walker covered in stickers. They met for the first time at the crosswalk. Their combined age exceeds the sum total of The Rolling Stones, who are also on our side. 

These youths wanted to be on the other side of the boulevard, but people in containers were going too fast. The youths wrapped their arms across each other’s shoulders, becoming one great mega-youth. Four lanes of containers slowed to a stop. If this were an ordinary day, the youths would not have accomplished their quest. They commemorated the hurrah with a high-ten. This was their first rodeo.