The Pony Slams The Hand That Quenches Him

The Pony is a menace to propriety.

Wednesday evening we stopped by the gas station chicken store to pick up some PowerBall tickets. The jackpot was $348 million, you know. And since I was there anyway, I figured I might as well have a paltry 32 oz Diet Coke. The Pony wanted a bottle of Sprite to accompany his Domino's pizza that we would be picking up next.

Because a doofus old geezer was sitting in his car in MY preferred parking space, with his back-up lights on, but not backing up in the two minutes I waited on him...I had to park around at the side, by the dumpster and the air hose.

When I rounded the corner of the building, wouldn't you know it? Not a car in sight. Anywhere. Not at the pumps, not at the end, and not in MY parking space. Darn that geezer all to heck!

I grabbed a Sprite out of the cooler, and bellied up to the soda fountain to fill my 32 oz Diet Coke. Still nobody. Just me and the week-old clerk (not her age, her length of employment) and the chicken gal. I put my sodas on the counter and asked for six PowerBall tickets, in two and two and two. That means she was supposed to print them two numbers to a ticket. For me, The Pony, and Genius. Hick is on his own.

Of course that little gal messed it up. She printed SIX individual number tickets. Maybe she couldn't hear me, what with a chicken customer coming in and hollering a greeting at the top of her lungs to the chicken gal. I swear. People in that establishment have no sense of proper decorum.

I took my bounty out to T-Hoe. With a soda in each hand, as well as my change, and trying to hold onto those six fluttering future tickets to paradise...I could not open my door. As I walked up to T-Hoe, I told The Pony, "Open your door."

The Pony opened, and reached for his Sprite. I let go, and was opening my hand to give him the coins to put in the cup on the console, when that rear door of T-Hoe snapped on my hand like a rusty bear trap.

YIKES!

Metal is stronger than Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's paper-thin flesh and brittle bone. But she still has her catlike ninja reflexes. I yanked my hand back just before the door slammed. But just after the metal edge clonked my palm at the bottom of the thumb where it turns into wrist.

SWEET GUMMI MARY THAT SMARTED!

The Pony opened up the door and said he was sorry. But he didn't kiss the booboo to make it better. Mrs. HM may or may not have done some rassen frassen about the pain as she cradled her wounded wing while careful not to slop her 32 oz Diet Coke. A few tears of pain relief later, and we were off to pick up pizza.

Can you believe my flesh did not even have the courtesy to knot up and bruise? What kind of rinky-dink aspirin am I taking every day, anyway?

Gimpin' Around Again In Ol' Hillmombaville

Limpin' on three toes
Strikin' a pain pose
Showin' The Pony what he's done now
Tellin' ya mister, 
'Bout my huge blister
And all he can do is look and say, "Wow!"

Woe is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. The Pony, rather than being her savior, her right-hand man, her go-to guy, her helpmate...was lax in his duties on Monday.

That's right. On Monday. A key day in the Hillbilly family workweek, what with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom having parking lot duty before and after school, with little time to log on 50-eleven times to get her lessons prepped before heading off to duty. We try to leave a little early on Mondays. TRY.

The Pony has taken to lingering abed. Sure, it's taken him all year to develop a case of senioritis. The #1 son had it from the first day of his freshman year. But Mrs. HM had hopes for The Pony. Until the past two months, he was always quick to jump out of bed when called. But now that he has the new puppy to feed before we leave, he's been slacking.

Let the record show that we left at our regular late time on Monday. Not the early time. I could not find The Pony's lunch bag in any of the places he is wont to toss it. Most often on one of the living room couches. But I did find his OLD lunch bag that we use in a pinch. Then I forgot to put in a plate for him to warm his chicken strip, because I was befuddled by the change in routine.

The Pony drug himself out of bed like the losing entry in a tractor pull. He mosied around like time was not of the essence. Fed the pup. May or may not have taken his medicine. So he took one on the way out the door just in case. I had to remind him to grab his lunch off the cutting block. As we started past EmBee, down the blacktop county road, I blathered about how I was glad this would leave me with only two Monday duties left.

"I hate these Monday duties. The only good thing is that there are a lot of Monday holidays. My knees will be hurting by the time I get back from the parking lot this afternoon. At least I have my other shoes to change into. Don't forget to carry them in. We're running late."

Let the record show that every Friday, I bring home my comfortable old worn shoes to wear for our trek to The Devil's Playground. But this week, I was in a hurry (because it was the first weekend of the month, and nobody wants to get there after the churchy crowd doubles the Playground population). I wore my regular shoes.

When we pulled into the school parking lot, I reminded The Pony to grab the bag with my shoes. He said, "I don't see them."

"WHAT? They were right there! On that folded down seat beside you! I saw them when I went to town Saturday."

"Huh. They're not here. I don't remember taking them in the house."

"LOOK!"

"I have looked! But I don't see them."

"Great. Now I have one pair of shoes for all day. I'll be a cripple by the time my duty day is over."

Off went The Pony. I looked a bit more in the back for my shoes. Old Mother Hubbard's dog found more than I did. What a way to start the week. My feet hurt already just thinking about it. When 5th hour rolled around, I took my brown leather Propet shoes out of the cabinet. Not my choice to be traipsing around in for any length of time. They make my feet sweat. To make matters worse, they eat my socks.

When the final bell rang, I quickly stepped out of my Propets and back into my gray-and-orange mesh New Balance. Sweet Gummi Mary! My sock was in a wad, and I had no time to straighten it out. Just-dismissed students behind the wheels of one-ton machines wait for no Hillbilly. That sock wad bothered me all the way back to my room.

"Pony. My sock is in a wad. I have to fix it. That does not happen with MY OLD SHOES!"

"Sorry..."

Tuesday morning, The Pony found my old shoes, inside the house, in the kitchen. We took them along for school. But by afternoon, when I took them off again and put my gray shoes back on, I still felt a sock wad. Or not. Because when I bent down to straighten it, I felt SOMETHING under the sock. Like a pea. Or more like a marble. Upon cranking back in the La-Z-Boy back at the Mansion, and removing my sock, I was afraid to look.

The Pony said, "Yeah. You have a blister. It's right between two toes. It's a big one. When I get them, they really hurt. So I pop them."

"No. I always use a needle dipped in alcohol, poked through the edge, so that blister water can flow out. Then it still stays covered with that flap of skin."

"I'll do that for you!"

"No. You won't. The way you fumble things, you might poke that needle straight in, like I'm a pin cushion. No, no, no."

So now I have a marble-sized blister between the little piggies that had roast beef and had none, right where the toes hook onto the foot. Very awkward.

I guess I'll let nature take its course. It may open up, or it may reabsorb. In the meantime, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hobblin'.

At least The Pony's lack of paper plate did not leave him with a blister. His lunchtime teacher had extra. If only she'd had a pair of old New Balance for me.

This Much I Know From Prom

The Pony speaks little. The following information was pulled from him like several wayward teeth.

His date fit in his truck.

His date's grandma pinned on his boutonniere that thwarted me three times.

He fishtailed on the wet roadway pulling out onto the highway.

He took the lake road to the venue.

He parked in Mario's lot. (Don't you worry about Mario. He went out of business years ago.)

His date chided him for parking so far (about 50 yards) from the door, even though he had offered to drop her off and park.

He was not the FIRST one to make a mess, but the second.

He thought the punch dispenser shut off when you pushed down on the lever. It does not.

He was NOWHERE NEAR the table that collapsed.

He and Datie danced, (an affront to the vision of his prommates), but not a slow dance.

Coronation was early, due to threatening weather.

He took Datie to Steak 'N' Shake afterwards, where he had a garlic butter burger, and she had fries and a shake.

He returned Datie to a different address from where he picked her up, the new address being off one of the most dangerous traffic areas in the county.

His date asked him to text her when he made it home.

He was really tired.

Now you know as much as I do about The Pony's prom experience.

The Lady In Red, Not Black And White

Remember when I asked Farmer H to bring back something for The Pony from France? And The Pony said that he wouldn't mind a French maid?

According to Farmer H, this is what the French use for domestic help (and perhaps other activities) these days. She doesn't even look like she'd be very good at picking up the house.

Not sure why Farmer H couldn't get a little closer for that picture. Perhaps he didn't want to be seen as some kind of fetishist by the French.

Anyhoo...he showed The Pony that picture on his phone Sunday morning, and told him, "You know that French lady you wanted? She's on the way. She'll be shipped with the machine."

Something tells me that Farmer H's overseas divisions might not be making strictly saw blades for the meat-cutting industry.

The Scales Of Justice Weigh Heavy At The Semi Weekly Meeting Of The Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank

Justice was verbally doled out Wednesday at the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank.

The gavel was pounded by the man in charge, who read from his phone about a local case being touted on a big city news station. Very local. In fact, right in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's neck of the woods. On the very pig trail she follows into and out of town each day. The lettered blacktop highway, specifically the section by some apartments and and just before the hill that brings you into town proper.

Here are the specifics.

An 8-year-old boy on a bicycle was struck by a red sedan Sunday evening. The driver stopped. The boy said he was okay. The driver left. Police responded to the child's home, and reported that he did not appear to have any major injuries, just some scrapes and a bump on his head. The boy's mother took him to the local emergency room later, which sent him to Children's Hospital in an ambulance with a left orbital fracture. He was released the next day.

Opinion in the comments of the local article is divided. It seems to be between the family of the child, and everybody else. The family feels that the driver should be punished for leaving the scene of an accident. The boy was interviewed on the news. He said the driver stopped and he said he was okay, then he ran off. He said the driver should be punished for hitting a kid. The mother says her boy was just trying to cross the road, when that car came speeding out of nowhere and hit him because she wasn't paying attention. She feels the driver should have walked the boy home (several blocks) in case he passed out on the way. Another thinks the police should have asked the kid what happened, and not take the word of somebody standing along the side of the road.

Here are pertinent facts from the police report.

That same day, before the accident, an officer was dispatched to that area for a report of boys on bicycles playing chicken in the middle of the highway, and stopping a car and refusing to let it by.

The driver's friends saw the incident on the news Tuesday night, and called her to tell her the police wanted to talk to her, and that she should turn herself in. Shortly after 9:00 p.m. on the day of the news broadcast, the driver called the police to see what she needed to do. They told her to come in Wednesday and give a statement, which she did. She stated that she had stopped and asked the boy if he was okay, then both boys took off. She did not know where they went, and was freaked out and didn't know what to do. Since the boy had said he was okay, she went home to the city.

Here is something that may have come into play.

The woman is a minority that does not have a large population in this area. Five miles down the road is the town where a hate group handed out flyers on the street a couple years ago in a bid to recruit new members.

The jury composed of Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tankers votes not to convict the driver. Unanimously. Seasoned educators, all of them.

Sometimes, a case is black and white.

Prom Drama

The Pony is off to prom this evening. He has just begun the dressing routine.

When we went to pick up his tux on Thursday, there was another kid already behind closed doors trying his on. It made me think of last year, then that befuddled fellow walked out in his black tux with his yellow vest on OVER the suit jacket. This unseen tuxer's mom was taking up two stools at the catalog counter. She was nodding off. Is the whole world on Ambien these days?

Anyhoo...The Pony got done and came prancing out. His jacket was too tight! I KNEW that trainee gal who measured him was not doing it properly. It's not like The Pony has grown a beer gut over the past three weeks. Anyhoo...rather than raise a stink and have to deal with picking up YET ANOTHER jacket on Friday, I just told him to leave it unbuttoned. It looks fine like that.

THEN Unseen Tuxer came out of his closet. Hm. He looked spiffy enough. Like he might be attending afternoon tea with Muffy and Buffy and the ladies over to play bridge. He had a light gray jacket and black pants. More suitable for a casual upper-crust soiree than a formal prom, methought. But hey! Who is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to judge, with her worn red Crocs who only this morning farted in unison when she slipped them on without socks to open a box of L'Oreal to infuse her tired tresses with life.

Unseen Tuxer's mother roused herself from stupor and objected. "What are you wearing? WHY does he have black pants? He ordered the gray tux. Not different colored jacket and slacks!"

"They were out of that size in gray pants. So they substituted the black ones."

"Why weren't we told?"

"We didn't know that when he rented the tux. They ran out when it was time to fill the order."

"Still. Nobody called US to ask if we wanted black pants with the gray jacket! We should have been given the option to switch to another tux!"

Unseen Tuxer moved to show them, in the catalog, what he'd ordered. In the process rooting around behind Mrs. HM, who was, after all, already seated on a stool, having no other option, what with Unseen Tuxer's Mother taking up the other two. You would think the least that Original Trainee and Unseen Tuxer could do was to say, "Excuse me," and pull the catalog from behind Mrs. HM's back to paw through further down the counter. But no. I was summarily ejected from my seat by fear of an impending paper cut to the jugular.

While those three bandied words, The Pony and I put his tux back on the hangers with the help of the seasoned veteran fitter, and got out while the gettin' was good. Though I DID have to send him back in from T-Hoe to ask when it was due back. Monday by 6:00.

I hope Unseen Tuxer's Mother got some satisfaction. When you pay that much to rent a tux, you expect to get a tux. Not a jacket and slacks.

The Pony may have to leave his jacket open, but at least his pants match. Funny how the pants fit perfectly, yet the jacket is too tight in the belly. I wonder how many other young gents will be parading around prom in ill-fitting finery. The whole school uses this place. And other schools, too. They even said what a madhouse it was on Wednesday (The Pony's scheduled pickup day) when everybody came in at once.

Thank the Gummi Mary that The Pony had scholar bowl that night. And that his beer belly still fits in his pants.

The Gift That Refuses To Quit Giving

Sweet Gummi Mary! The influx continues! Sixteen days and counting DOWN, and guess who gets another new student. That’s right. Mrs. Hillbilly Freakin’ Mom! Bet you didn’t know she had a middle name, huh?

Continuing with the theme of Stick it to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom While She’s Gone, I give you more evidence that the universe conspires against Mrs. HM. I rushed in this morning to gather things for the state testing that my course was taking part in 1st hour. Scratch paper. Pencils. Assignments for my other classes, who were being relegated to the library. I printed a roster for the librarian at 7:55. Then headed off to the computer lab for testing.

When I returned at the beginning of 2nd hour to take over my own class, I discovered a new pupil. In fact, Mrs. Not-A-Cook had taken him into my room and placed him in a seat. So much for Mrs. HM’s seating chart. So…between 7:55 and 9:05 my roster changed. What’s up with that?

Let the record show that this is the fourth new pupil Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been gifted with in four weeks. The universe shouldn’t have. Really. Mrs. HM is not worthy of such gifts.

At this rate, she stands to get three more new pupils before retirement.