Farmer H has gone to Oklahoma to help The Pony move from his 9th floor dorm room to a 3rd floor apartment. I am no help with physical labor, so I stayed home. I sorely regret not being able to see my precious Pony. But not even the thought of tricking Farmer H into taking me to a casino on the way there or back could tempt me. Anyway, my favorite gambling aunt has recovered from her surgery, and she is taking me to one tomorrow.
Last night, Farmer H must have been rarin' to go on this trip. You don't think he has secretly been looking forward to being away from me, do you? I'm sure he hasn't. He's virtually attached to me. Like a barnacle. To the HMS HM. If I was British. Which I'm not.
Anyhoo...Farmer H flopped around like a perch in the dust on the edge of the pond in my grandpa's hog lot. His contortions defied physics. It's like he flipped over without using his arms or legs. Like an omelet in a non-stick pan. Of course, his arms and legs obeyed the laws of physics. No scofflaws were Farmer H's appendages. He must have whacked me five or six times. If I was still on that demon bloodthinner, I'd probably look like a pinto pony or a Holstein cow. Except with purple spots.
At 5:50 a.m., Farmer H woke me by flinging a large Ziploc bag of prescription medicines onto the mattress as he packed his suitcase. Which, of course, must be done at 5:50 a.m. In the bedroom. On the bed. Even though all that was left to pack was his breather and his medicine.
"Didn't you shake the bed enough last night? Must you wake me NOW? I just went to sleep."
"I'm only packing, HM."
"And you punched me all night!"
"I did not!"
"At least three times. You hit me." Even though it was more that three times. I wasn't trying to sound sensational.
"I did NOT hit you!"
"How do you even know? You were asleep. You won't be here when the bruises show up so I can prove it."
"That's just stupid. I didn't hit you."
"You whacked me all night long."
"I might have bumped you when I turned over. That's not hitting you."
"I didn't say you did it on purpose. But you still hit me."
"Whatever."
Yeah. How come that never works for me? How come when Farmer H accuses me of something, I can't get away with simply saying, "I did not."
I'd better not be all stove-up when it comes time to walk around the casino tomorrow.
6 comments:
"All stove-up"? Is that a rural phrase? I've never heard it.
You can always take a picture of your bruises, to prove you were right.
Sioux,
Yes, it IS a rural expression. I'm pretty sure that if blog buddy Kathy reads it, she will remind me that I could have accelerated the bruising with makeup. Not that she would do such a thing herself, of course...
Oh, and did you know that Elvis originally was going to call his song "All Stove Up" before Colonel Tom Parker disallowed it? Uh huh. It's true. He got the idea while he was reading that book, "War and Peace," which was originally going to be titled "War, What is It Good For?"
I'm sure you'll be fine in the casino; the atmosphere is very calming!!
fishducky,
My sarcasmometer is sounding off the charts! If you only KNEW the sights I've seen today at the casino...
Oh, wait! You WILL. Maybe not here, but word will get out.
I am quite familiar with the phrase "all stove up". It means you can hardly move around. Used in a sentence .... "I can't make it today, I am all stove up, I will be there tomorrow, The Lord willing and the creek don't rise."
I am not ashamed that I sometimes resort to visually enhancing an injury for more sympathy!
Kathy,
See? I remembered your previous advice!
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