Has anybody here seen Sweet Baby Ray
Can you tell me where he's gone
He fed a lot of people
But is seems the good they run out
I just looked in Frig, and he was gone
Sweet Baby Ray is missing!
One might hope that Sweet Baby Ray is the guest of honor on a tour of neighborhood bars, like one town's missing Baby Jesus a few years back. Or that Sweet Baby Ray took off on an adventure like that kid in Baby's Day Out. Or that Sweet Baby Ray is off making eTrades on an airplane. But the sad truth is that Sweet Baby Ray is gone, gone, gone. Without a trace.
Sweet Baby Ray actually disappeared twice. The first time at the hands of one Farmer H, of Hillmomba, Missouri. Sweet Baby Ray was last seen chillin' on the second door-shelf of Frig. Next thing you know, Sweet Baby Ray was digesting comfortably in the stomachs of HM, The Pony, #1, and the perpetrator himself, Farmer H.
Sweet Baby Ray, we hardly knew ye. So sorry to consume you like common cannibals. We knew not what we did. Farmer H set us upon that path. A regular Donner Party ringleader he would have been. A griller of special barbecue at the Whistle Stop Cafe. Oh. Wait. A griller of special barbecue at the Hillbilly Mansion.
Sweet Baby Ray came to live with us at the behest of my mom. He was to be under the guidance of the #1 son. Who took his eye off Sweet Baby Ray for only several days, resulting in his babyraynapping. Farmer H disposed of the carcass in a black trash bag in a tall blue kitchen wastebasket in a Mansion sided with cedar in the rolling hills and plunging sinkholes of Hillmomba. Under intense questioning, Farmer H revealed his motive: "Nobody told me not to."
As with all royal families having an heir and a spare, the Hillbilly household stashed an understudy in the wings within days of Sweet Baby Ray's original disappearance. This one was also named Sweet Baby Ray, in the spirit of George Foreman and his sons: George Foreman, George Foreman, George Foreman, George Foreman, and George Foreman.
Sweet Baby Ray is missing!
Sweet Baby Ray was last seen laying on the bottom of a box on the long couch in the Mansion living room. Trying to evade Farmer H, perhaps. It is believed that Sweet Baby Ray rode around the grounds of Hillmomba in the back of a Gator, and partied hearty at a bonfire down by the creek. Some say Sweet Baby Ray is off to seek higher education at an engineering institution in the heartland.
Time will tell. And Farmer H, if tortured.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Sunday, October 6, 2013
A Hot Time In The Old Tiny Shantytown Last Night
Farmer H thoroughly enjoyed himself last night, hanging out with the college boys. He confused them at first. By hiding their soda. In his mind he wasn't hiding anything. He had told me all day he was going to get a bag of ice and put their sodas in a cooler. Since the plan was to go down by the creek, near Tiny Shantytown, and build a fire, I assumed they would take the cooler down on the Gator. I asked Farmer H twice before they arrived if he had gotten the ice.
"Yeah. I put 18 sodas on ice in the cooler. And another 18 are in the refrigerator at the BARn." I suppose Farmer H thinks of soda like he thinks of beer. That amount should be plenty for six college boys.
With Farmer H away at the auction, the boys returned from their 4-wheeled tour of the neighborhood. The #1 son had strict instructions to stay away from the crazy dude who piles sticks in the middle of the main road because he says he owns to the center line, and nobody's going to get on his property if he can help it. Yeah. I'm waiting for a meth lab to explode any day. Or maybe he's got a body in his septic tank, too.
The boys went down into the woods. Not long after, I heard an engine out front. #1 came in for the box of food that Farmer H had left behind. And the soda. "Where's our soda?"
"Your dad said he put it on ice in a cooler."
"I've looked everywhere and can't find a cooler."
"He said he took it down to the cabin."
"There's no cooler at the cabin. We looked everywhere."
"I guess you can call your dad."
"Oh, he's sitting in the BARn. I'll stop and ask him as I go by."
Yeah. Farmer H had put the soda in the cooler. It was on the front porch of his cabin. Except it wasn't the usual cooler you might imagine, a red or blue Igloo with a white flip top. Nope. It was in a metal Coca Cola cooler that always sits on the front porch of the cabin. None of the college boys thought of it as a cooler. Whippersnappers.
This morning Farmer H said he thought the kids enjoyed themselves, and liked looking at all of his old stuff. I did hear them thanking him for showing his stuff right before they left.
"Did they see your Barbie?"
"What do you mean, my Barbie? I have TWO! They saw the one in the BARn. It was my first Barbie. Picnic Barbie. You got her for me for Christmas that year. She's got a checkered shirt."
"I am familiar with that Barbie and her origins. I'm talking about Coca Cola Barbie, on top of the slot machine in the basement."
"Oh, I guess they saw that one. But Picnic Barbie IS Coca Cola Barbie. That's why you got her for me."
"I know. I guess you took her to the BARn. I'm asking about the slot machine Barbie."
"That is NASCAR Barbie! My Number One Son got him for me. If she was on top of the slot machine, I'm sure they saw her. They were playing the tokens out of that thing."
We had a further Who's On First conversation about which boy was which. Farmer H is not real good with descriptive language.
"That kid with the hair all around his head."
"Um...?"
"I mean hair coming out from under his head."
"You've lost me."
"The one with the hair sticking out from his hat."
Excuse me, not being a hat-wearer, but doesn't the hair of most hat-wearers stick out from under the hat? I still don't know what point Farmer H was getting at, because I was all discombobulated by the head/hair/hat conundrum.
Anyway, I think everybody had a good time. Except maybe The Pony, who holed up in his room, loathe to come out, even to ask #1 the secret button code for playing a movie on his TV by using the satellite and TV and perhaps DVD remotes. I don't know exactly what set-up he's got in there.
I guess he can go movieless until Thanksgiving break, when the rocket scientist returns. There might be a little shred of truth to #1's statement, way back in childhood. "Pony, we're just like Pinky and The Brain. I'm The Brain, of course, and you are Pinky."
"Yeah. I put 18 sodas on ice in the cooler. And another 18 are in the refrigerator at the BARn." I suppose Farmer H thinks of soda like he thinks of beer. That amount should be plenty for six college boys.
With Farmer H away at the auction, the boys returned from their 4-wheeled tour of the neighborhood. The #1 son had strict instructions to stay away from the crazy dude who piles sticks in the middle of the main road because he says he owns to the center line, and nobody's going to get on his property if he can help it. Yeah. I'm waiting for a meth lab to explode any day. Or maybe he's got a body in his septic tank, too.
The boys went down into the woods. Not long after, I heard an engine out front. #1 came in for the box of food that Farmer H had left behind. And the soda. "Where's our soda?"
"Your dad said he put it on ice in a cooler."
"I've looked everywhere and can't find a cooler."
"He said he took it down to the cabin."
"There's no cooler at the cabin. We looked everywhere."
"I guess you can call your dad."
"Oh, he's sitting in the BARn. I'll stop and ask him as I go by."
Yeah. Farmer H had put the soda in the cooler. It was on the front porch of his cabin. Except it wasn't the usual cooler you might imagine, a red or blue Igloo with a white flip top. Nope. It was in a metal Coca Cola cooler that always sits on the front porch of the cabin. None of the college boys thought of it as a cooler. Whippersnappers.
This morning Farmer H said he thought the kids enjoyed themselves, and liked looking at all of his old stuff. I did hear them thanking him for showing his stuff right before they left.
"Did they see your Barbie?"
"What do you mean, my Barbie? I have TWO! They saw the one in the BARn. It was my first Barbie. Picnic Barbie. You got her for me for Christmas that year. She's got a checkered shirt."
"I am familiar with that Barbie and her origins. I'm talking about Coca Cola Barbie, on top of the slot machine in the basement."
"Oh, I guess they saw that one. But Picnic Barbie IS Coca Cola Barbie. That's why you got her for me."
"I know. I guess you took her to the BARn. I'm asking about the slot machine Barbie."
"That is NASCAR Barbie! My Number One Son got him for me. If she was on top of the slot machine, I'm sure they saw her. They were playing the tokens out of that thing."
We had a further Who's On First conversation about which boy was which. Farmer H is not real good with descriptive language.
"That kid with the hair all around his head."
"Um...?"
"I mean hair coming out from under his head."
"You've lost me."
"The one with the hair sticking out from his hat."
Excuse me, not being a hat-wearer, but doesn't the hair of most hat-wearers stick out from under the hat? I still don't know what point Farmer H was getting at, because I was all discombobulated by the head/hair/hat conundrum.
Anyway, I think everybody had a good time. Except maybe The Pony, who holed up in his room, loathe to come out, even to ask #1 the secret button code for playing a movie on his TV by using the satellite and TV and perhaps DVD remotes. I don't know exactly what set-up he's got in there.
I guess he can go movieless until Thanksgiving break, when the rocket scientist returns. There might be a little shred of truth to #1's statement, way back in childhood. "Pony, we're just like Pinky and The Brain. I'm The Brain, of course, and you are Pinky."
Saturday, October 5, 2013
It's All About The Benjamin
The #1 son is here for a few hours. He brought five friends home from college. And I didn't even have to tie a pork chop or a Monster energy drink around his neck.
The plan was to ride the 4-wheelers and the Gator and the Scout around the acreage, culminating in a cookout down by the creek in Farmer H's shantytown. Or tiny town, as one of my old Lower Basementia colleagues called it. Of course they are in the Mansion, playing pool, showing no signs of embarking on their big adventure.
I told #1 that I thought I heard his father riding one of the off-road-vehicles over to the Mansion from the BARn. "Oh, he is. He has paraded by on two different ones, trying to make us come out."
Farmer H finally gave up and came in to give advice on playing pool. Like, "The 8-ball should be the LAST one to go in." I feel for him. Really. While I would like nothing better than for #1 and his cronies to do their own thing and leave me out of it, Farmer H wants to be included. It kind of tugs at my cold, cold heartstrings. Farmer H is a social butterfly. He loves showing off his outbuildings and mechanical equipment. I'm surprised he didn't put his turkey on a leash and lead it over for petting. Maybe he's clairvoyant. He might be going after that turkey, because I just heard him go out the front door.
I think the guys will go outside soon enough. Unless they wait so long that it starts raining again. Alas, there are six of them. That does not leave a seat on an off-road-vehicle for Farmer H. I guess he could trail them on the lawnmower. Or meet them at the fire pit so they don't burn down Tiny Shantytown. Wait! Here he comes again, plodding down the stairs.
SHOCKER! Farmer H is going to the auction! While his boy is home from college! But before you assume that Farmer H has put his Auction Meat ahead of his beloved offspring, let the record show that it's DRAWING NIGHT! The night the auction draws a ticket for a $100 winner. You must be there to win. So Farmer H is foregoing ninety minutes with his pride-and-joy for a chance to win a C-note. It's all about the Benjamin.
So far, the higher-education locusts have invaded but not devoured. That's because they came by way of a local eatery. They have, however, placed themselves behind the 8-ball, overheated the tabletop slot machine, tickled the ivories, whirled a plastic thingamajig that sings at different octaves, played with something that sounds like dropping a crated piano out a 5th floor window, and found some kind of treat with a crinkly cellophane wrapper.
At this moment, I am cowering in my dark basement lair. It's a horror story come to life. Or a fairy tale for Farmer H.
The plan was to ride the 4-wheelers and the Gator and the Scout around the acreage, culminating in a cookout down by the creek in Farmer H's shantytown. Or tiny town, as one of my old Lower Basementia colleagues called it. Of course they are in the Mansion, playing pool, showing no signs of embarking on their big adventure.
I told #1 that I thought I heard his father riding one of the off-road-vehicles over to the Mansion from the BARn. "Oh, he is. He has paraded by on two different ones, trying to make us come out."
Farmer H finally gave up and came in to give advice on playing pool. Like, "The 8-ball should be the LAST one to go in." I feel for him. Really. While I would like nothing better than for #1 and his cronies to do their own thing and leave me out of it, Farmer H wants to be included. It kind of tugs at my cold, cold heartstrings. Farmer H is a social butterfly. He loves showing off his outbuildings and mechanical equipment. I'm surprised he didn't put his turkey on a leash and lead it over for petting. Maybe he's clairvoyant. He might be going after that turkey, because I just heard him go out the front door.
I think the guys will go outside soon enough. Unless they wait so long that it starts raining again. Alas, there are six of them. That does not leave a seat on an off-road-vehicle for Farmer H. I guess he could trail them on the lawnmower. Or meet them at the fire pit so they don't burn down Tiny Shantytown. Wait! Here he comes again, plodding down the stairs.
SHOCKER! Farmer H is going to the auction! While his boy is home from college! But before you assume that Farmer H has put his Auction Meat ahead of his beloved offspring, let the record show that it's DRAWING NIGHT! The night the auction draws a ticket for a $100 winner. You must be there to win. So Farmer H is foregoing ninety minutes with his pride-and-joy for a chance to win a C-note. It's all about the Benjamin.
So far, the higher-education locusts have invaded but not devoured. That's because they came by way of a local eatery. They have, however, placed themselves behind the 8-ball, overheated the tabletop slot machine, tickled the ivories, whirled a plastic thingamajig that sings at different octaves, played with something that sounds like dropping a crated piano out a 5th floor window, and found some kind of treat with a crinkly cellophane wrapper.
At this moment, I am cowering in my dark basement lair. It's a horror story come to life. Or a fairy tale for Farmer H.
Friday, October 4, 2013
If It's Not One Weirdo It's Another
This evening I had to run in Save A Lot to spend a lot on cookout vittles for the #1 son and seven of his closest friends that he's bringing home from college tomorrow. I thought it would be simple. Just dash in, grab items a la Supermarket Sweep, and hot-foot it out to T-Hoe.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom thinks. Save A Lot weirdos laugh.
There was a little old lady who passed me on the yogurt aisle. I'm not so slow that a little old lady can overtake me. I was perusing the Coburn Farms Light yogurt for decent expiration dates. The strawberry-banana was only two weeks, but the cherry cheesecake was into November. So I tried to move on down the yogurt aisle, which is for me, not for #1's people, to the french onion dip, which is theirs. That spindly little old lady would not move along. She had me trapped between a cardboard center-aisle chip display, and the cheeses. She finally tottered on.
I grabbed the dip and headed for ketchup and mustard. Came down the cookie aisle and grabbed some frosted oatmeal. There she was again! The Stock Blocker. On the meat aisle, next to the hot dogs and sausages. Right where I needed to go. I could see them looming on the other side of her, the Super Dogs. She was, after all, nearly transparent. She was looking at me like she knew what she was doing. Like a schoolboy letting out a silent slow fart when he comes to your desk to ask a question. I huffed off to look for the marshmallows, and circled back for the Super Dogs when the coast was clear.
I'll be gosh-darned if she didn't start up my short-cut while I was moving two boxes of faux Ritz Crackers into a larger box so I could have theirs for toting my boy-food home. Stock Blocker kind of listed to one side, like she had lost an oar. Like a dog runs sideways. Like my gravitational pull was drawing her skeleton toward me. I barely made it past her without contact.
I found name-brand chips three for $9.00, which I don't consider a bargain, but I grabbed them anyway. Loaded my cart with Save A Lot brand sodas Bubba Cola, Tubz Root Beer, and Mountain Holler. Oh, and some fruit punch in foil like Capri Sun. I don't remember the name. Probably something such as Pedal-Pusher Moon.
Wheeling up the home stretch between the glass-doored ice cream freezers and the open-top frozen dinner coolers, I saw Stock Blocker singlehandedly shutting down that thoroughfare. She had one scarecrow arm on the center cooler, her legs splayed, and right arm fully extended to grasp the side of her cart, which abutted a small stand-alone display of garlic salt or ice cream sprinkles. I swear. Stock Blocker's fossils formed an "X" that blocked the passage to the hot dog buns. She looked like the Blair Witch.
I'll be dag-nabbed if Stock Blocker didn't check out ahead of me, but come up behind me at the self-boxing counter. Standing at the hatch of T-Hoe with The Pony doing my heavy lifting, I spied Stock Blocker four cars down, slowly stowing her purchases in a minivan. AND THERE WAS ANOTHER BLAIR WITCH JUST LIKE HER!
Maybe I encountered more than one Stock Blocker. They all look alike.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom thinks. Save A Lot weirdos laugh.
There was a little old lady who passed me on the yogurt aisle. I'm not so slow that a little old lady can overtake me. I was perusing the Coburn Farms Light yogurt for decent expiration dates. The strawberry-banana was only two weeks, but the cherry cheesecake was into November. So I tried to move on down the yogurt aisle, which is for me, not for #1's people, to the french onion dip, which is theirs. That spindly little old lady would not move along. She had me trapped between a cardboard center-aisle chip display, and the cheeses. She finally tottered on.
I grabbed the dip and headed for ketchup and mustard. Came down the cookie aisle and grabbed some frosted oatmeal. There she was again! The Stock Blocker. On the meat aisle, next to the hot dogs and sausages. Right where I needed to go. I could see them looming on the other side of her, the Super Dogs. She was, after all, nearly transparent. She was looking at me like she knew what she was doing. Like a schoolboy letting out a silent slow fart when he comes to your desk to ask a question. I huffed off to look for the marshmallows, and circled back for the Super Dogs when the coast was clear.
I'll be gosh-darned if she didn't start up my short-cut while I was moving two boxes of faux Ritz Crackers into a larger box so I could have theirs for toting my boy-food home. Stock Blocker kind of listed to one side, like she had lost an oar. Like a dog runs sideways. Like my gravitational pull was drawing her skeleton toward me. I barely made it past her without contact.
I found name-brand chips three for $9.00, which I don't consider a bargain, but I grabbed them anyway. Loaded my cart with Save A Lot brand sodas Bubba Cola, Tubz Root Beer, and Mountain Holler. Oh, and some fruit punch in foil like Capri Sun. I don't remember the name. Probably something such as Pedal-Pusher Moon.
Wheeling up the home stretch between the glass-doored ice cream freezers and the open-top frozen dinner coolers, I saw Stock Blocker singlehandedly shutting down that thoroughfare. She had one scarecrow arm on the center cooler, her legs splayed, and right arm fully extended to grasp the side of her cart, which abutted a small stand-alone display of garlic salt or ice cream sprinkles. I swear. Stock Blocker's fossils formed an "X" that blocked the passage to the hot dog buns. She looked like the Blair Witch.
I'll be dag-nabbed if Stock Blocker didn't check out ahead of me, but come up behind me at the self-boxing counter. Standing at the hatch of T-Hoe with The Pony doing my heavy lifting, I spied Stock Blocker four cars down, slowly stowing her purchases in a minivan. AND THERE WAS ANOTHER BLAIR WITCH JUST LIKE HER!
Maybe I encountered more than one Stock Blocker. They all look alike.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
A Sarcastic Thanks To My Voices
Thanks so much, Gl***coe division of McG*** H***, for hiring THE most sleep-inducing textbook reader ever, in the history of the world, to voice my physics chapters on DVD.
This guy must have been relieved of his previous position as a golf announcer for being too subdued. If only I could bottle his dulcet tones, or put them in pill form, I could surpass Ambien in pharmaceutical sales to the unrested.
It's not their fault. Kids yawn 1st Hour no matter what stimulating activities I plan for them. Even a Hillbilly Mom classroom premier of The Conjuring would fail to make them alert.
At least my biology textbook has two readers. One man, one woman. Thanks, H*** McD****l, for being an equal opportunity employer. Of course, I can't chose which one reads which chapter. But I CAN make them read slower. Yep! I have two-speed readers. That's a really good threat and an even better promise. Rather than ask the restless masses, "Oh, do I need to start this page over in case you missed something while discussing your personal lives?" I tell them, "I can make it go SLOWER if you missed that!"
It doesn't pay to mess with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
I'm surprised nobody has yet come up with a textbook that's a true TEXT BOOK. You know. One using that thumbly shorthand that's all the rage with the whippersnappers of today. Maybe then they would read the book at home when assigned, and I wouldn't need to rely on my relaxed-to-the-point-of-catatonia out-loud recorded readers.
Remember the good old days when students read textbooks out loud?
This guy must have been relieved of his previous position as a golf announcer for being too subdued. If only I could bottle his dulcet tones, or put them in pill form, I could surpass Ambien in pharmaceutical sales to the unrested.
It's not their fault. Kids yawn 1st Hour no matter what stimulating activities I plan for them. Even a Hillbilly Mom classroom premier of The Conjuring would fail to make them alert.
At least my biology textbook has two readers. One man, one woman. Thanks, H*** McD****l, for being an equal opportunity employer. Of course, I can't chose which one reads which chapter. But I CAN make them read slower. Yep! I have two-speed readers. That's a really good threat and an even better promise. Rather than ask the restless masses, "Oh, do I need to start this page over in case you missed something while discussing your personal lives?" I tell them, "I can make it go SLOWER if you missed that!"
It doesn't pay to mess with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
I'm surprised nobody has yet come up with a textbook that's a true TEXT BOOK. You know. One using that thumbly shorthand that's all the rage with the whippersnappers of today. Maybe then they would read the book at home when assigned, and I wouldn't need to rely on my relaxed-to-the-point-of-catatonia out-loud recorded readers.
Remember the good old days when students read textbooks out loud?
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
It Will Take At Least Two Days To Recover From This Day Off
Funny how the day flies by when you're on your own time, and crawls when you're at work. Here is a tale out of school about my personal leave day.
7:25
Dropped The Pony off at school
7:25-7:50
Proceeded to the park to await the arrival of Mabel, my best ol' ex-teaching friend
7:50-11:10
Engaged in a wonderful rectangular-table discussion with Mabel
11:10-11:30
Rode T-Hoe to the hub post office, which had no particular smell, and inquired about a missing box of books.
11:30-12:00
Cruised out to my mom's house to deliver one National Enquirer and one Globe. Used her indoor plumbin', and briefly discussed my recent taste for dog nose.
12:00-12:30
Drove ten minutes to Burger King and waited in line for 20 to get a small order of Satisfries. Next time I'll get a medium. They are scrumptious.
12:30-12:45
Sped over to the dead-mouse-smelling post office to inquire about missing books. Still no satisfaction.
12:45-1:00
Journeyed back to the Mansion and patted Juno with my mouth closed.
1:00-1:15
Fired up my internet on Shiba the laptop in my front picture window.
1:15-1:25
Taught myself how to scan and save a document on my basement lair New Delly.
1:25-2:00
Composed an e-mail to my publisher concerning pertinent details of the Lost Treasure of the Hillbilly Madre, and attached TWO files, one of them being a Domestic Claim Form for lost registered mail.
2:00-2:20
Started this post.
2:20-4:40
Got ready to go back to Newmentia to survey the carnage from my planned day off, and to await The Pony's release from Academic Team practice.
4:40-Now
Called in a pizza to pick up on the way home, waited for a nincompoop talking on a cell phone to get out of the way of Casey's air hose so I could inflate T-Hoe's left rear...and put the finishing touches on this masterpiece.
Time to call it a day, feast on pizza, and watch Survivor.
7:25
Dropped The Pony off at school
7:25-7:50
Proceeded to the park to await the arrival of Mabel, my best ol' ex-teaching friend
7:50-11:10
Engaged in a wonderful rectangular-table discussion with Mabel
11:10-11:30
Rode T-Hoe to the hub post office, which had no particular smell, and inquired about a missing box of books.
11:30-12:00
Cruised out to my mom's house to deliver one National Enquirer and one Globe. Used her indoor plumbin', and briefly discussed my recent taste for dog nose.
12:00-12:30
Drove ten minutes to Burger King and waited in line for 20 to get a small order of Satisfries. Next time I'll get a medium. They are scrumptious.
12:30-12:45
Sped over to the dead-mouse-smelling post office to inquire about missing books. Still no satisfaction.
12:45-1:00
Journeyed back to the Mansion and patted Juno with my mouth closed.
1:00-1:15
Fired up my internet on Shiba the laptop in my front picture window.
1:15-1:25
Taught myself how to scan and save a document on my basement lair New Delly.
1:25-2:00
Composed an e-mail to my publisher concerning pertinent details of the Lost Treasure of the Hillbilly Madre, and attached TWO files, one of them being a Domestic Claim Form for lost registered mail.
2:00-2:20
Started this post.
2:20-4:40
Got ready to go back to Newmentia to survey the carnage from my planned day off, and to await The Pony's release from Academic Team practice.
4:40-Now
Called in a pizza to pick up on the way home, waited for a nincompoop talking on a cell phone to get out of the way of Casey's air hose so I could inflate T-Hoe's left rear...and put the finishing touches on this masterpiece.
Time to call it a day, feast on pizza, and watch Survivor.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Sometimes A Great Nose-tion
Why is it easier to just go to work than to plan to be gone? Oh, how I long for my days working for the unemployment office, when my work sat patiently on my desk, awaiting my return. No need to tell anyone else how to do my job. No need to transport folders and hide tests and stash teacher-editions texts out of sight. No need to sweep my very special pens under the rug where they can remain unmolested and unkidnapped.
Tomorrow I shall reunite with my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. And in honor of the occasion, my nose sprouted a blemish this morning. Yeah. You'd think I was going on a blind date. Or to a dance with the big man on campus. I'm lucky nobody hit me in the nose with a football. Uh huh. Not that the swelling would be any less than that generated by the blemish.
I swear, it's like a unicorn horn poking out from my nose-tip. I could put an eye out with that thing. Thank the Gummi Mary it's not a quadricorn. That could break glasses and blind a four-eyes. Of course my hand is drawn to that area every two minutes, to check and see if that knight's jousting lance of a blemish is getting any smaller. It is not. I'm like Pinocchio. And that's the truth!
I know that Mabel won't care about my appearance. I'm just hoping that my vaulting pole and I can both fit behind the steering wheel of T-Hoe.
Tomorrow I shall reunite with my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. And in honor of the occasion, my nose sprouted a blemish this morning. Yeah. You'd think I was going on a blind date. Or to a dance with the big man on campus. I'm lucky nobody hit me in the nose with a football. Uh huh. Not that the swelling would be any less than that generated by the blemish.
I swear, it's like a unicorn horn poking out from my nose-tip. I could put an eye out with that thing. Thank the Gummi Mary it's not a quadricorn. That could break glasses and blind a four-eyes. Of course my hand is drawn to that area every two minutes, to check and see if that knight's jousting lance of a blemish is getting any smaller. It is not. I'm like Pinocchio. And that's the truth!
I know that Mabel won't care about my appearance. I'm just hoping that my vaulting pole and I can both fit behind the steering wheel of T-Hoe.
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