Yeah, I'm Pretty Sure Farmer H Is Trying To Kill Me

I know I've broached this subject before, here and there, time after time. There's not enough evidence to send Farmer H to the Crossbars Hilton. It's circumstantial at best. One incident in itself would not arouse my suspicions. But a series of coincidental events does. I think Farmer H might be trying to kill me.

Saturday, as we walked into the casino, I took the lead as usual. We park way down in the parking lot if the weather is dry. Past the parking garage. We stride along the covered walkway, lined with seasonal flowers or shrubs. This month, it's been tulips. It's good exercise! Yeah! That's why we go to the casino! For a workout.

Anyhoo...once we reach the building, we can either go in regular glass doors that flank each side, or through the revolving door in the center. We always choose the revolving door. It's something different that we don't have in Hillmomba. I go first. No reason why. It's how we've always done it. In keeping with his always-underfootness, Farmer H comes in right behind me. Not in the next cubicle, the slice of door following mine. In the exact same section. I'm pushing the bar to get it started, and Farmer H is on my heels. Sometimes literally. I guess he doesn't want to take a chance on me escaping. Or he doesn't want to assist in pushing that heavy door with his own brass push-bar.

Anyhoo...I got that door revolving, and as my push-bar passed the frame, I stepped out into the vestibule, Farmer H right behind me. Except this time, there was an issue. My left shirt-sleeve caught on a door latch. Normally, I have on my heather sage green baseball-style jacket, because it's cold in the casino. But the last two times, it was stuffy. The smoke was much better (meaning not so noticeable), and the air conditioning wasn't blowing on me. So I went in a short-sleeve oxford-style cotton shirt. The sleeves come down almost to my elbow. As I went out of the revolving door, my shirt sleeve caught on that latch.

Farmer H kept walking! I think he even had his forearm in my back, pushing on me. Never mind that I was hollering, "Whoa! I'm caught!" With my left arm lagging behind my body. Making me rotate around so that I was almost facing Farmer H as he shoved me, trying to get through the door. Sweet Gummi Mary! It's not like he was on an escalator that won't stop. All he had to do was stand firm, and let that door hit him in the a$$. Heh, heh! I guess too many people have told Farmer H NOT to let the door hit him in his a$$.

Anyhoo...Farmer H kept walking and walking, pushing on me, although I was clearly going nowhere. It was like that marching band scene in Animal House.

After stumbling his feet over mine, Farmer H went on through the door into the vestibule, and I spun around. It's not like I had a choice. Momentum and friction did the job. I backed up enough to free my shirt sleeve from the latch. I could have been de-armified, by cracky! In which case, I probably would have bled out from the spurting stump, with Farmer H accidentally mis-placing his belt around my neck as a tourniquet.

Going to the casino may be good exercise, but it can also be deadly.