Utter failure.

The experiment was an utter failure. Not udder, like on the underside of a cow, but utter, like all but the first letter of gutter. I know this because in my head I would say “Gee, utter failure. Gee, utter failure.” And then it dawned on me, I will not have a gutter failure unless a major event happens that causes specific harm to my gutter. I mean, you wouldn’t notice anything special about them. They are white. They line my house. Rain doesn’t drip on you, unless, of course, it’s raining, and even then, is it considered dripping? I know they are drops. People often call them drops. It has been said that some even sort of make this portmanteau of the two words, “raindrop”. Granted, I’ve only really read that archaic term in the folk songs about rain drops falling on somebody’s head… and I know it was out dated and misused when I heard it, because it was playing during this old western movie about a guy named Butch and with him as usual, Sundance. The song was playing while the sun was dancing, but “Sundance” wasn’t involved in the scene. It was Butch. Butch on a bicycle. Butch on a bicycle with Sundance’s woman. No rain to be found. But they did eventually fall off the bicycle, which might be termed in some circles as “dropping” to the ground, if you subscribe to such things. I don’t remember her name. Maybe it was Rain. I’ve heard of people named Rain. Or Rainne, or however that guy from that TV show spells his name. So, in that case, “Rain Drops” could have been symbolic of the girl falling off the bicycle and on to Butch’s head. Though, to be honest, I don’t think she fell on his head, nor do I think her name had anything to do with any type of precipitation. I’m having a hard time placing her name. Ita come to me. But not before I tell you why the experiment was a failure. Because horoscopes are vague. And I don’t like ambiguity