|I'm singing the blues. I couldn't imagine anyone but a flapper singing the|
blues. Oh, wait, B.B. King playing Lucille popped into my head. Too late.
Yes, I sound like an eccentric writer now. ("I cannot move, darling, I'm writing. Nuff said.") The last time we moved, I had to go on psychotropic drugs for two years. The book I was working on at the time has never been finished and it was almost half through. (Good idea too. I might go back to it. It had a guy who had lost his daughter and was determined to find her ghost because he was certain she was dead. It had a whole ghost hunter thing going on, way, way before all the stuff came out on the Syfy channel. Damn, it was a good story and I couldn't finish it because my mind had gone down the rabbit hole and not in a good way.)
|Bubba fans, please pay attention to the fact that these|
are business casual shoes and slacks upended in
the grass. You know, the kind business casual
professionals use, like oh, um, HIM?
I refuse to comment on the grounds that it will incriminate myself. (And he's a rocket scientist so it's not like he doesn't know what I'm talking about.)
Ways to torture HIM:
1. Burial in an ant hill. (The red kind.)
2. Smear his entire body with poison ivy. (He's truly allergic to it. The kind where he has to go to the doctor and get special meds for it. And by the way, Alabama has LOTS of poison ivy.)
3. Smear peanut butter on the toilet seat in the middle of the night. (If you don't know this one, go talk to an adolescent.)
4. Call his cell phone and ask if his refrigerator is running. (All right, this is lame.)
5. Blog about HIM until I'm tired of it.
There ya go. HIM is not a crook. But HIM is a pain in the a**. HIM is MY pain in the a**. I suppose I'll keep him.
But wait. I DO want to be mean to the driver of this car:
|Yes, this is a tan Avalon with the VA plate of XKD-8764,|
in case anyone has trouble seeing it.
There. I was mean to someone else besides HIM.