Thursday, September 10, 2015

At Wit's End




At Wit's End

I want to wish my sister a Happy Birthday. I hope you have a great day.

If you hear someone sneezing in the corridor today, that will be me. I have a head cold. No big deal.

Cold meds can be trippy stuff. Last night, I dreamt I was drifting out to sea with Ernest Hemingway. He was smoking a cigar and drinking rum straight from the bottle. I was waiting for him to say something profound. He didn't. I could make something up for you, but that would be cheating.

I might cheat at board games like Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit, but only when I know the odds are stacked against me.

I bought a new shirt the other day. I bought it online, and it came the very next day. I haven't even taken it out of its wrapping yet. In time, I'll forget what I bought, and I do love a surprise.

I don't regret anything I've done in my life. I have to admit, though, I don't remember a hell of a lot.

It's funny how people can call you an ass without actually saying, "You're an ass."

I know I'm an ass most of the time. Who isn't? It's what you do with the non-ass time that counts. In my non-ass time, I'm magic.

Some of you will now be thinking, "What an ass this guy is."

You're right.

Of course, some people will never admit to being an ass. I think that's fair enough. You can be some other body part if you prefer. Being an ass is just very convenient to me. No one has ever said to me, "You're such a left foot . . ."

I don't understand foot fetishes or people that flaunt their feet. I think it's a middle-age preoccupation. Not many teenagers are hung up on feet. Maybe, when all the other body parts are shot, the feet become a last refuge. Well, who can say for sure?
 








 








 
 


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