Just now I zapped about six paragraphs I had written on political polling. I figured I would write something about politics since today is Primary day in Texas, where I live. The truth is, my heart isn’t in the election nor is writing about politics particularly appealing today. The reason why this is so is also complicated therefore I don’t want to write about that either.
I don’t want to write about Napoleon today. You hardly ever find me wasting time here in this space with comments about Kim Kardashian, whoever she might be.
The thought of chickens doesn’t particularly interest me at the moment. Anyone who has ever raised or taken care of those feathered crap machines — and don’t get me started on the smell and especially its effect on a bastard of a hangover — know that anyone who wants an egg would be well-advised to get it at the store.
Road graders are particularly fascinating, especially if you happen upon one in the woods after working hours and start it up and begin to drive it around. Bulldozers also have held a great place in my heart since I somehow managed to bring one to life when I was maybe 4 or 5 years old while my Daddy was painting a sign on a grader, or “maintainer” as they were called, parked next to it. My Dad dropped what he was doing and jumped on the tractor and got it to stop. It seems as if that was also the time I got stung on the leg by a yellowjacket and my Dad told me to piss on it. Or put some wet tobacco on it. But that couldn’t be. Such memorable times can’t happen in tandem like that, can they? Nonetheless, I don’t really want to write about any kind of heavy duty equipment.
The A/C I would really like to talk about. Not. Certainly a boring ass topic. That is unless the A/C fell on someone 13 floors below. Why 13 floors? Think of the symbolism. Some tall buildings don’t even have a 13th floor.
I don’t really want to talk about nice butts. Being a butt-man, I normally could talk half the day and into the wee hours about the really fine butts out there. Holy moley …
Speaking of butts, let’s not talk about that 4th of July when driving away from Crystal Beach with Warren to buy more beer I made the comment, I didn’t think anyone would hear us, “CL’s butt is getting a little big.” CL and some other friends were playing volleyball and, well, I just happened to make an observation. Unfortunately, when we returned I discovered everyone had heard the comment, not the least being CL. I understand that to this day she is still pissed. Sorry about that. See, I shouldn’t talk about it.
I could talk about that night, the one some called “the coldest night of the century,” when first my friend Waldo and then Suzie came out to the shotgun shack in which I lived. It was so cold the toilet was frozen and we all had to go outside, though not all at once. I don’t think that’s particularly relevant on this warm late, spring day. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t.
Who knows what and when and where and why? We all know how. And how. And how not. There is an infinite list of what I could say, what I have said or what I wished I said. But my fingers are getting tired and it’s time for the news and suppertime. I am not “talking” anyway. I’m writing. I am thinking and it comes out of my head and into my fingers, kind of like what takes place each times your brain tells your fingers what to do or what not to do.
It’s another day gone. Shot to hell. Time to watch the news and bitch about something. Then it is time to eat supper, go to bed and then do it all over again, perhaps.
Spelling error report
The following text will be sent to our editors: