I didn’t get to the park, even, folks. But everything I can do on the book is done. The groceries are purchased. Brothers are aided. Fleas are follow-up treated. And ice cream is eaten.
About the only interesting thing that I can bother to tell you about is that I had to take some stuff to the compost pile and on the way there, I stepped in a hole, dropped the stuff for composting on my foot, and almost poked my eye out. It still makes me laugh to think about it. Like seriously, I can’t walk across my back yard without almost losing an eye and breaking an ankle?
Shoot, I hope if we’re ever attacked by Vikings, they come in through the back yard. They’ll never make it to the house. The yard will do them in.
I like spending time with the Butcher, even though today he admitted he doesn’t really like ice cream and would prefer carrots (I know! Have body snatchers gotten my brother or what?), because we have conversations that go like this.
The Butcher: Oh, look, you can’t park your mobile home there any more.
Me: Damn it. It’s getting harder and harder to find a place to park my mobile home.
Butcher: Maybe you should find a way to make in immobile.
Me: No, you know, it’s those damn PeTA people. I took the wheels off my mobile home and replaced them with Galapagos tortoises and now I can’t fucking get a break about where to park my mobile home.
Butcher: Aren’t Galapagos tortoises endangered?
Me: I’m an American, damn it. I’m putting those tortoises to work!
Butcher: So, your mobile home is on animals with mobile homes.
Me: Exactly. It’s homes all the way down.
Butcher. And Holmes on Homes on your roof, carrying Priest Holmes around.
Both: Ha ha ha ha ha.
Me: Oh, look, a Coptic Church.
The Butcher: Why do police officers need their own denomination?
We amuse us, what can I say?