It was freaking hot hot hot Sunday but once we surrendered ourselves to back sweat and frizzy hair and $7 Ghost River beers*, I dare say we had ourselves a grand old time. *Okay, okay, okay. I was the only one surrendering myself to beer.
My dad is a snorer. A robust Olympian of a snorer. The kind of snorer who can shake walls and summon earthquakes with his tracheal vibrations. For years I suffered through family vacations spent sleeping in the same room as my parents. As soon as dad would nod off — which never took long, as damn near everyone in my family is more or less narcoleptic — I knew that was all the wrote, and…
… you can go damn near anywhere you please as long as you strut as hard as this fellow is strutting. (Cue “Strut That Ass” remix.)
This time with sweet election results coding action. Which is sweet in the way that a hernia is pleasurable.
“Orange kitty is using biological warfare against me!” This is the sentence that comes out of the manfriend’s mouth as we are lying in bed being stalked by Jack, who is pacing warily around the bedroom, stopping occasionally to peer at us from the floor and then perch on the nightstand to watch us from above. Biological weaponry, in the manfriend’s estimation, is the dander floating like fallout everywhere in my house — dander that…
I picked up a couple of pots of really wilty, dead-looking dianthus on the clearance rack of Lowe’s a month or so ago, and am happy to say I have not killed the plants further, but have in fact coaxed a bloom, a single bloom!, out of what used to be yellowed foliage. Huzzah.
While watching an episode of Sons of Anarchy: Some character on the show: You know Whistler, right? Me: No, but I know Whistler’s mother! Manfred: [Silence] Me: Come ON! That joke works on TWO LEVELS.
After five point five years of living in Memphis — including many months of owning a home here — I’ve finally decided to take the plunge and get Shelby County tags. I figure I may as well fritter away my tax dollars locally rather than in Hardin County, where they go to build jails that house former high school classmates of mine. At least in Shelby County my tax dollars can go to fund some…
The weather is just nice enough not to level you when you walk outside, which means you should turn these songs up as loud as you can and strut around in the yard with a strong beverage of your choice in one hand and the sticky-skinned lover of your choice in the other. Richard Johnston — “Miss Maebelle”
You must be logged in to post a comment.