“So, how are we going to decide?” asked Zarabeth.

Before anyone could respond, Cecil started singing: ‘Ippy, dippy, my space-shippy/ On a course so true,/ Past Neptune and Pluto’s moon./ The one I choose is… you!" With a grand flourish his finger stopped while pointing at Michaels. “Your call, my good fellow,” Cecil said.

Michaels, Zarabeth, and Frank blinked. “uhhh…” was the collective reply.

“You know, Cecil,” Michaels said, patting the fellow on the shoulder with a large leather gloved hand, “I don’t think that was what Zarabeth had in mind.”

Frank nodded, eager to agree with Michaels, though this time his agreement seemed genuine. “Ya man, you can’t just ‘Ippy Dippy’ a decision. It’s not done, man.” He shook his head in an apparently knowledgeable fashion.

Cecil crossed his tweed covered arms. “Fine,” he patronized, “then how do you propose to solve it?”

Zarabeth tapped the pointy toes of her red sequined shoes on the concrete to get the fellows’ attention. “You know, I think I’m with Cecil.”