Harold is writing a story, except he's got it all wrong. It's supposed to begin with a choir of nuns singing an Ancient Greek hymn inside a cathedral, but instead they're orienting a map of the Appalachian Trail on the hood of a car.

A priest should be somewhere, translating cryptic Sanskrit with a magnifying glass, but instead he's rocking the cradle with a yo-yo in the driver's seat.

Pews of the devout who clasp their hands together, and are supposed to be praying for democracy, are, in fact, riddled by the Sunday crossword puzzle.

Harold doesn't know what's gone wrong. He's very upset.

A horse and buggy do several laps around Harold's house: a reminder that he will be charged an extravagant wait fee by the horse and buggy company.

Meanwhile there are thousands of fire ants swarming a Thanksgiving turkey he had been saving since Easter.

The horse and buggy lap the house once more. We're waiting, Mr. Harold, the horse says.

Harold, scratching his head, sweating, says, Perhaps the hymn should be in Latin...?

Are you sure? asks a fire ant.

No, but I might as well give it a shot... And what are the odds of that horse crossing the Chattahoochee River in winter...?