It’s Not That I Don’t Trust The Recalcitrant Brother…

I just trust Sarcastro more.  See, it’s like this.  Sarcastro, as Exador will tell you, is physically incapable of being wrong.  So, if you call him up and ask, “Is my brother going to explode my pipes if he puts a snake down there?” and he says, “Probably not,” you know things are most likely going to be okay.

But if you ask the recalcitrant brother, “Are you going to explode my pipes if you put a snake down there?” and he says, “Probably not,” it’s only just because the pipes are actually going to catch fire and aliens will land and you’ll end up explaining to the FBI why Jimmy Hoffa’s corpse has suddenly launched onto I-440.

But I’ve got to tell you, it went just fine.  I mean, true, the recalcitrant brother is a plumber by trade, so he ought to be able to do this stuff just fine.  But it was still cool to watch him be all professional and competent and…

Ha, he says if I’m going to be blogging about him, I’d better call him “Heroic.”

So, the heroic recalcitrant brother has fixed my clogged drain and done it in such a way that the Butcher and I now think we could do it ourselves in the future.

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It’s Just Like Last Night’s Post But With Knowledge

First, the Butcher and I revisited Ryan’s all night.  Would eating Blogger Ryan’s cigar butts have made us less sick?  Probably.

Second, my dad will not have to beat up anyone at the Scene because the review in the Tennessean is awesome.  But I really wish y’all could have heard him rant against the Scene, which he was just sure was full of old hippies who were rendered incapable of appreciating my genius by their lifelong pot smoking and blue jean wearing.

Ha, I know I shouldn’t enjoy that as much as I do, but it’s nice to have him be proud of me to my face, as opposed to him going home, bragging to the other Reverend who then tells me about it six months later.

Okay, y’all I have to interrupt this mostly pointless post to tell you that the dog is sitting with her nose in the Butcher’s shoe, giving me a look like, ‘I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t help it.’  I wish I had a camera.

I Love These Folks Enough to Eat at Ryan’s

We went to Ryan’s for dinner.  Sadly, it was not this Ryan, but the restaurant full of every disgruntled family in Donelson.  Dinner at blogger Ryan’s would have been better, even if he’d just let us sit out back and chew on his cigar butts.

Still, the nephews liked it and I guess that’s all that counts.

The oldest nephew can set up a camper like a pro, that’s for sure, but he got pissed off when we tried to play “Ahab the Arab” because he doesn’t speak Arabic.  I tried to point out that Ray Stevens doesn’t speak Arabic either and that he could safely enjoy the song because it was making fun of people who are different than him, which I’m pretty sure is an acceptable pastime among his people, but he wasn’t having anything to do with that.

The youngest nephew was wearing a blue camouflage outfit.  I know I have some military folks who read, and so I must ask, where does one need blue camouflage?  When you’re hiding near the ocean?  Or in a pile of hospital scrubs?

And my dad threatened to beat up the Scene, which I thought was pretty sweet.