Where the Buffalo Cease to Roam

Arthur Mildwester was honing his whetted chops on the bone-dry intellectual fodder of another rummaged misfire of his milder disaffected bounty. “Hokum to your ho-hum.” Those were the sentiments he’d disagree to dispense with completely, if the mood suited the massé of his obliviousness. Or he could swish around his coffee and mumble, “My toast is evenly burnt, at least,” while peddling his personality around to any takers, of which…