By the time he ever flies the nest, The Pony is going to be curled tightly into a fetal position. Nobody knows the troubling sights he's seen, nobody knows his horror. Well. Except for you loyal readers...
His ears could tell some tales, too. If they could talk. Which maybe they can, since The Pony used to think I could hear with my mouth. That's where he would whisper secrets to me. Directly into my mouth.
Anyhoo... some of the things I say to The Pony don't quite come out like I intend them. So he might be getting a complex about being unwanted.
On the way home from the casino on Thursday, I turned around to look at The Pony, seated behind Farmer H in A-Cad's sweaving seat.
"Why are you breathing?"
The Pony pulled out his earbuds and frowned.
"What was that? I was listening to music so I don't have to hear you and Dad."
"Why are you breathing?"
"Um. I don't know...to LIVE?"
"I
mean, I just hear you. Like a heavy sigh. Like you blamed ME for when I
was walking to the bathroom yesterday, and dropped the remote by accident when moving it on the table, and you said I had an attitude,
but I informed you that I DID NOT have an attitude, but was merely
obese."
"I'm only breathing, Mother. It's what living things do."
"Fair enough."
When we got home, Farmer H stopped A-Cad outside the garage door to let me out. It takes a while, after riding 90 minutes, because my joints stiffen up. Farmer H jumps out to pee. He can't wait like a normal person, to get inside the Mansion. I swear, that man has a bladder smaller than a hummingbird's.
Anyhoo... The Pony has only made this casino trip with us a couple times. He does not know the routine, Farmer H having skipped this undisciplined release when The Pony was along.
"OH! Don't look, Pony! Here. I'm getting ready to hand you my other shoes."
"Too late. I saw it. That is most horrendous thing yet. Nobody should have to see that."
"WHAT? Even worse than the Old Baby Blue Sweatshirt Incident? He usually runs over to the edge of the carport and pees over the side."
"Oh, that's what he did. But he just lifted his shorts leg..."
SWEET GUMMI MARY!
Farmer H cannot even pee without alienating his audience! Which I suppose is a moot point, since he shouldn't HAVE an audience. I suppose I'll have to be careful on the hay-wagon tours of my proposed handbasket factory and Shackytown, while announcing the landmarks, to avert eyes from the scene of this atrocity.
If readers of my not-so-secret book a tour, I will warn them with a song:
"Look away, look away, look away, HICK-PEE-LAND!"
4 comments:
And I thought you were just whistlin' Dixie...
Just lifed his shorts leg? I tried to imagine the logistics of that, but then I shuddered. And then I looked for an ice pick to gouge out my mind's eye.
Maybe a few more horrors like this will spur (get that?) The Pony to snag a job--any job--so he can move out on his own.
On the other hand, a few more horrors like this, and The Pony might be too emotionally damaged to get a job and support himself...
Sioux,
Heh, heh. I don't think anyone is allowed to whistle Dixie these days. A whistle is not just a whistle anymore.
As for the pants leg... there is the edge of laziness, and then there is the abyss. Farmer H will never expend excess effort. I will also stock ice picks on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory. That's for the marketing idea of this new product. I might re-package them, and sell under the brand name of "Rootin' Tootin' Gen-U-Wine Hillbilly Eye-Gougers."
Not-Heaven's Bells! I could put The Pony to work running the concession stand and taking orders for proposed handbaskets!
You realise I will never be able to erase that mental image? Even ice picks won't help.
River,
I am so sorry. That's why I'm forming a support group (minimal fee to join, of course) for you and Sioux and The Pony. I will waive The Pony's membership fee if he will act as the facilitator of the group. Please understand that some sessions may be cancelled for emergency toenail removal procedures.
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