My Quality Control Department recently informed me that things are running amok once more in Blogger Country. I checked up on this claim and found out that it is indeed true. You see, gentle reader, August 24 simply did not exist in Blogger Country. I tried and tried to talk to you back then, but my words simply did not appear. You may stop sniffling now.
Sure, I managed to play hooky successfully on all the other days, but my sloth simply could not cut the monkey a week ago. Speaking of monkeys, the only thing better than one monkey is two monkeys. Let’s give Test Monkey No. 6 a warm, banana smeared welcome. Why did he entitle his site so? I don’t know, nor am I going to probe any deeper, but it sure as shortcake wasn’t sanctioned by Mr. Dahl. Am I right or am I left?
Brando’s mind-boggling gastrointestinal abilities, coupled with his powerhouse napping regimen, will head off to San Francisco today for some grad schoolin’ at our nation’s premier program for biology.
You know the Wendy’s located at Oasis, the one right above the highway, the restaurant in which he downed a spicy chicken sandwich meal at 3 AM this morning after having ingested pounds of meat at a Brazilian barbeque? Yeah, that one, gentle reader. It will never be the same, and Brando will be missed. Proteins beware!
Here’s the deal, gentle reader. I turn right from Sheridan onto Main this afternoon and I stop mid-turn because a truck is just sitting in the street, emergency lights flashing as if they actually mean something. With other weary commuters piling up behind me, I give a perfunctory honk, at which point the bastard truck driver walks over and gets all “traffic cop” in my face.
So he’s waving me over to the other lane–you know, the one that kinda contains ONCOMING traffic and a lot of it–and I’m throwing my hands up in the air and silently mouthing, “What the f*ck?” He gets impatient, the flabby, florid man, and beckons to me to pull up. The lady in the oncoming lane isn’t too thrilled as my bumper edges within an inch or two of her driver’s side door, so I start backing up, which obviously runs counter to Mr. Florid’s wishes. Up come his two fat arms again as he waves me forward angrily, so I humor him, but not before indicating that my sideview mirror would, oh, hit his BIG FAT TRUCK.
This apparently doesn’t register in his brain (maybe I should’ve strung some Ho-Ho’s from my mirror) until my mirror almost hits his truck, which prompts him to articulate in a moment of epiphany, “NONONO,” and point at my mirror. Thanks, Mr. Florid. You deserve a cookie. Or two. Or FIVE.
So this little drama repeats itself, I’m going backwards and forwards as if it were my hobby, and then we all have a good laugh. By “we all have,” I mean “I have” as the Evanston police zoom in to deliver his “deliveries in rear” ass off the road.
Well, that was therapeutic. My weekend is off to a great start! Now enough about road rage–let’s talk about road rage.