I got a late start to town today. Blame it on D'Hummi, who needed to relieve himself out the basement door. Since he is not ambulatory, I removed his full bladder and carried it myself, whacking door frames, errant treadmill bars, and the foosball table, sprinkling D'Hummi's effluence like a clumsy, less-hygienic Johnny Appleseed.
Back in the day, when we moved from Hillmomba proper to our Hillbilly Mansion, times were simpler. The route to civilization was marred only by stop signs for cars trying to infiltrate our little burg from the highway exit ramps. Fie on progress! Now we have a multitude of stoplights, and wacky crooked traffic lanes. I've adapted, but I'm not happy.
Thank the Gummi Mary for her conference call with Even Steven. I narrowly avoided being trapped on the wrong side of the overpass during my mission to score a 44 oz. Diet Coke. Oh, I could have still forged a route home with a simple U-turn, left turn, and roundabout. But law enforcement kind of frowns on the U-ey. Haha! Good luck catching me, copper, because your headquarters is on the wrong side of the underpass. You'd have to hit the interstate, careen down and up the sides of the muddy median, reverse direction, and get stuck in the stuck traffic waiting on the exit ramp.
Yeah. I made the light and pulled in for my 44 oz. Diet Coke without incident. When I came out, this sight gave me a fine how-do-you do at the underpass. Made me no nevermind. I was on my way out of town by then. No need to get hung up in that snarl of gas-burners. Looks like somebody cut the turn too sharp while hauling a lengthy concrete beam.
One of the perils of downtown Hillmomba.